


A Heart at Peace

by strange_seas



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slice of Life, bestfriends!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 04:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_seas/pseuds/strange_seas
Summary: Joonmyun’s kid brother has always been special to Kyungsoo—and Kyungsoo has always been special (very special) to Joonmyun’s kid brother.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This au features a slightly wider age gap between the hyung and dongsaeng lines. Kyungsoo is three years older than Jongin, while Joonmyun is five years older (I put him at the same age as Minseok). Chingu-liners Chanyeol, Baekhyun, and Kyungsoo are all still around the same age, as are maknae-liners Jongin and Sehun.
> 
> Title taken from the English translation of ["Intermission: Flower"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwOX2kfZyvI) by Zayn: _Until the flower of this love has blossomed / this heart won’t be at peace / give me your heart / give me your heart / give me your heart._

Jongin is discharged from the military on a hot summer morning, the sky blindingly pale and hazy with heat, like something in a Monet. Kyungsoo has to squint under his hand to get a good look at him, striding out of the base with Sehun in tow. Jongin spots him quickly in the throng of families, friends, and lovers, his face lighting up with instant recognition. When he waves, his shoulders come up higher than most people’s heads.

In his pressed army fatigues and smart green beret, Joonmyun’s kid brother looks every bit the soldier. Nothing like a kid. 

Joonmyun’s got him smothered in his arms now, jovial and just a touch teary-eyed as Jongin laughs into his shoulder.

“Hyung,” Jongin says, grin wry, “did you miss me?”

“No.” Joonmyun squeezes harder, jostling him a little, so that Jongin has to squeeze him back to keep his balance.

“Liar.”

“Of course I did,” Joonmyun relents, laughably fast. “I missed you very much, Jonginnie.”

Jongin pets his hair. “Good hyung.”

Kyungsoo’s not-quite-smile blooms into a full-blown smirk when Joonmyun whacks his brother on the arm. Jongin yelps; Joonmyun does it again. The _insolence_.

Jongin rubs at the sore spot, fending off further attacks with some surprise aegyo. He coos, “Thanks for coming to see me so often,” all baby-eyed and mochi-mouthed, and the whacking ceases abruptly.

“Brat.” Joonmyun wipes at his eyes. “That was Kyungsoo’s idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jongin and Kyungsoo say at the same time, like clockwork. When Jongin smiles at him, finally, their eyes latching with ease, Kyungsoo’s smile reveals itself like clockwork, too. _Jinx,_ he thinks to himself, remembering how this used to happen to them all the time, back when they were younger.

It takes a beat—and Sehun’s military-issued boot in Jongin’s ass, whining for a hug from Joonmyunie-hyung—for Jongin to untangle himself from his clingy older brother. Kyungsoo holds out his arms then, and Jongin fits himself into the small circle they make around his waist.

“Hey, kiddo.” Kyungsoo pats the space between his shoulder blades. “Welcome back.”

“I’m twenty-seven now, hyung,” Jongin says pleasantly. “I’m all grown up.”

“Is that right?” Kyungsoo pushes him off. “Let’s have a look, then.”

He _is_ taller than he’d been two years ago when he’d left, quite early, for the military. He seems even taller than the last time Kyungsoo had come to visit, just under two months ago. Broader, too, and a deeper shade of bronze, skin pulling taut over muscles Kyungsoo’s never noticed before. The aftermath of active duty, he supposes, when one has Jongin’s genes.

(When Kyungsoo was conscripted into the military, a couple years ahead of Jongin, he’d served in active duty, too. But when he was discharged, he looked exactly the same—like a high school student in a college student’s body. Jongin made sure to point that out.)

Jongin cocks his head. “What do you think?” His expression is half-hidden by his beret, but Kyungsoo can still see his eyes, soft and warm as ever.

Kyungsoo feels compelled, by history, to tease him. “Meh.”

Jongin stuffs his hands in his pockets, never breaking eye contact. The corners of his mouth are twitching. He towers over Kyungsoo, comfortably close, lean as a rifle. All his baby fat is missing. “You don’t think I look different at all?”

“You’re all right.” Kyungsoo keeps his tone purposely bland.

“All right, all right, all right,” Jongin drawls, attempting a McConaughey and bungling the accent completely. It’s terribly dorky, and Jongin is _actually pouting_ while he does it in sotto voce.

Kyungsoo snorts. “You’re still so stupid, Jonginnie.”

There’s that lopsided smile again. “And you’re still so mean, hyung.” Jongin’s right hand leaves its pocket to scritch at the side of Kyungsoo’s neck, where Kyungsoo is most ticklish.

“Hey—” Kyungsoo jerks away as Jongin’s fingers chase the hinge of his jaw, then the curve of his ear. “Stop.”

But Jongin only loops an arm around him and smooshes him back into his chest—his hold much stronger, chest much firmer than Kyungsoo recalls, the smell of his aftershave mingling with stale sweat. The hard staccato of his fingers persists.

Kyungsoo yells, wriggling hopelessly as Jongin holds him in place, his laugh the happy, hiccupping kind. Next to them, Joonmyun and Sehun look on in amusement, arm in arm, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun.

It’s an old habit Jongin’s had since they were kids. He’s always touchy with people he likes, and Kyungsoo knows, through Jongin’s own admission (and with secret, silent pride) that he tops that list. But he’s thirty now, goddammit, and the co-owner of a thriving gourmet food company—too old to be subjected to the mercy of this man-child’s hands.

“ _Jongin_ ,” Kyungsoo bellows, trying to elbow his aggressor in the nuts. “Get the _fuck_ off.”

He hears the smack on the back of his head before he feels it. “Don’t cuss at him,” Joonmyun says, so serene, with Sehun’s chin perched on his shoulder.

Sehun rearranges his mouth from a straight line into a bracket. “Hi, Kyungsoo-hyung.” He’s got his arms wrapped all the way around Joonmyun’s small frame. “Did you get shorter?”

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes to the back of his head, the skin and bone there still stinging from Joonmyun’s strike. Jongin’s hold loosens as he hiccup-laughs some more, and Kyungsoo takes the opportunity to twist away from him.

“I hate you all.”

The hand at his nape belongs to Jongin this time. It soothes the damage done to Kyungsoo’s scalp, rubbing the skin and carding through the hair it finds there. “No, you don’t,” Jongin says, and he removes his beret with his other hand. His hair is starting to grow out. There’s a fine line of sweat on his brow, which he tries to wipe away with the hand holding the beret. “You love me, hyung.”

The words seem to leave his mouth on impulse, against his better judgment. Jongin pauses awkwardly for a second, then chuckles at his own discomfiture. His eyes are in crescents when he looks to Kyungsoo, who’s observed everything in silence, for approval.

“You wish,” Kyungsoo returns blithely. “It’s the opposite.” Still, he pulls the sleeve of his thin cotton pullover over his fist and dabs Jongin’s forehead with it, because he’s used to taking care of this overgrown pup.

(Baekhyun’s always said that Kyungsoo is good wrapped in fifty layers of evil.)

Jongin leans into the attention, bending low so that Kyungsoo doesn’t have to reach up so high. “Another liar,” Jongin says, grinning. “I don’t believe a word you say.”

Kyungsoo cracks up, laughing directly into the younger man’s face. His breath makes Jongin’s lashes flutter (were they always this long?), and Jongin’s exhale skitters over his cheeks. It smells like coffee, thinly veiled by spearmint. Kyungsoo doesn’t know when he started drinking coffee—two years ago, Jongin couldn’t stomach the stuff.

In the background, Sehun is introducing his “precious Joonmyunie-hyung, brilliant SNU professor, the much better version of Kim Jonginnie” to a couple guys in their unit. They seem impressed from all the ooh-ing and aah-ing Kyungsoo can hear—not that he’s paying close attention to anything else but Joonmyun’s sweaty little brother.

His face is parallel to Jongin’s now, and Kyungsoo dabs dutifully until he sees nothing more to dab at—sees only Jongin’s clear, tan skin and coltish eyes. He huffs, feeling silly of a sudden, because Jongin is a grown man and grown men can wipe their own sweat, even when there are thirty-year-old hyungs in long-sleeves around to help them. So he drops his hand and lifts the other to flick Jongin between the brows, because that’s what one does with one’s favored dongsaeng.

Jongin blinks once, then twice, then once more, an odd expression flickering over his features. It doesn’t seem like he’s in shock; more like he’s turning over something in his mind, and he’s not sure if it should be expressed or stay unspoken. Kyungsoo had expected a whine and a pout—not this searching look and the crease between Jongin’s brows where his flick had left its mark.

“What?” Kyungsoo asks, his own brows knitting in mild confusion. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Hurriedly, he places his thumb over the mark on Jongin’s skin. “Did that hurt? I’m sorry.”

Jongin only shakes his head, the slightest curl of a smile dancing over his lips as he remains silent, and Kyungsoo remains perplexed. Jongin looks so powerful in his uniform, almost sexy, with this tougher, tighter body of his (not that Kyungsoo would ever tell him so). But his face holds no such power—only naiveté, clear and present as the sheen of sweat on a frolicking child.

“Jongin?” Kyungsoo says again, just as raucous laughter echoes over from Joonmyun and Sehun’s side.

That seems to snap Jongin right out of it. “Sorry,” he chuckles, waving off Kyungsoo’s hand and pulling away from him completely. “I just spaced out. Must be tired from all the discharge activities.”

Kyungsoo eyes him carefully. “Must be,” is what he decides to say, letting the moment pass. “I was a little spacy when I was discharged, too. Fatigue and adrenaline are a bad mix.”

“Right.” Jongin’s beret is back on his head, his hands are back in his pockets, and his smile is back on his face. Back to normal. “So, anyway.” He drops his gaze from Kyungsoo’s face. It wanders off to where Sehun is barnacled over his brother. “How’s your girlfriend, hyung?”

Kyungsoo’s stomach tenses. He frowns, not knowing why, and wills it to un-tense. “Did Joonmyun-hyung tell you about that?” He licks his lips, chapped from the heat. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Jongin’s smile is easy and mellow, like the sound of his voice. “Right,” he says, for the second time, catching eyes with Kyungsoo again. His expression is masked by the shadow of his beret. “It’s complicated.”

 

 

Shin-hye is a restaurateur, one of Kyungsoo’s most recent clients for Italian cheese and French wine—and certainly his most attractive.

It happens late one night at her bistro in Garosu-gil, a few months after Jongin left for the military. They’d been sampling Kyungsoo’s new Malbec: a rare blend from Argentina that savored of cacao and dark cherries. Just two inches in each glass to pair with the board of charcuterie Shin-hye’s staff had laid out for them. Not enough to get either of them drunk—but certainly enough to get them loose.

Shin-hye is six years older, with a fresh-grad face and a Pilates body. Kyungsoo is twenty-nine at this point, and calls her _noona_ instead of _Shin-hye-ssi_ , because she makes him feel comfortable enough to do that. She is elegant and confident, always well-dressed and quick-witted, but in a way that is effortless rather than showy. He is still adapting to the concept of his _actually_ being handsome; a late bloomer unused to compliments on his pretty mouth, his dark eyes, his low voice, what-have-you. His awkward phase is long gone, along with his sloppy sweats and unfortunate haircuts. But he’d still blushed when he walked into the bistro that night, looking good enough in his wool suit, apparently, to make Shin-hye call him “sexy.”

Half a bottle in, she sends a potent look Kyungsoo’s way. It comes with half a smile. He smiles back slowly, _what is it, noona?,_ brow quizzical as he takes the wine and makes as if to pour her some more. But that’s not what she wants. This becomes clear when she places her hand on his thigh, high enough to count, her thumb rubbing a stripe into the fabric of his pants. For a long moment, they stare at each other, Kyungsoo’s heart rate picking up speed, his whole body stiff with disbelief. Shin-hye’s large eyes are growing more and more limpid, her pink mouth wet in the center from where she’s licked it. She’s actually unsure—this queen of a woman, unsure around _him,_ a dork who’d once cried over a B-grade in home economics.

 _That_ is what pulls him in.

Kyungsoo never does this, _never,_ casual sex being too complex for his simple life. But he’s lonely—much more than he cares to admit. Joonmyun is away on business in Hong Kong, and Chanyeol and Baekhyun are on a month-long English holiday with their new girlfriends. Kyungsoo’s just gotten back from an arduous buying trip to South America, and while the two weeks with his enterprising brother were productive (they’ve got enough black truffle to last them the quarter), Seungsoo is sick of his mood swings and openly avoiding him. ( _See you in March, punk,_ his last text reads.)

Normally, this wouldn’t faze Kyungsoo one bit, because Kyungsoo doesn’t need anybody, not really. He’d just show up at Jongin’s apartment with an armful of cooking ingredients and camp out there for a week, feeding Jongin fancy gourmet food in exchange for half of Jongin’s bed and access to his anime. But Jongin, that stupid kid, is miles away at an army base, leaving Kyungsoo all alone in freezing February Seoul.

He knows it’s loneliness when he presses his dry mouth against Shin-hye’s wet one, pride inflating at the moan she gives him. He knows it’s loneliness when he lets her taste him with her tongue and cup him gently with her hand, his thighs tensing at her touch. He knows it’s loneliness when he cups one of her breasts over her blouse, brushing his thumb over the spot where he knows her nipple will be, and pulling away from her kiss so he can quietly ask, “Are you sure about this, noona?” When she says, “Yes,” and, “Let’s take this to my office,” he also knows it’s loneliness that makes him yield to her seduction.

He goes willingly, dazed by unexpected desire, letting her lead him to the back and lock the door behind them. She leans against the same door, calm as she unfetters him, removing his belt and letting it drop to the floor, unzipping his pants and sliding a hand inside his briefs to stroke him. Her other hand takes Kyungsoo by the wrist and gracefully slips his fingers between her legs.

Kyungsoo is all grown and no virgin, but he learns much about women that night, like he’s starting from the basics. Where to touch and how; when to speak, low and dirty, and when to stay silent and watch. How to tease out the pleasure slowly, as though Shin-hye’s body was a Spanish guitar and pleasure a string being tuned and tightened over it. How to overwhelm her with desire, finding the stamina to make her ache and the creativity to sate her.

Later, when the heat of their passion has dissolved their ability to stand, and they’re draped over one another on the floor (both topless, Kyungsoo’s pants pooled around his ankles and Shin-hye’s skirt hiked up to her waist), that sense of pride surges in his chest again, swelling like a wave. It’s a difficult thing to wrap his head around—that someone older, wiser, looking the way Shin-hye looks, would want him enough to let him know, and then let him have his way with them.

Shin-hye’s mouth is next to his ear, her eyes shut and her breathing even. “Are you seeing anyone?” She smells like herbal shampoo, red wine, and the sex Kyungsoo’s just given her. One of her hands is resting over his stomach, tracing patterns over his abs.

“No, noona,” Kyungsoo says, turning to face her, because that feels like the polite thing to do. Some of her hair is stuck to her forehead, damp and mussed. He likes that he wore her out enough to make her sweat, to smudge that pristine exterior of hers by a touch. But he brushes her hair behind her ear, anyway, because he doesn’t really want to ruin her.

Shin-hye waits until he removes his hand before leaning in to kiss him. “Good,” she chuckles, and Kyungsoo’s eyes close as she laps at his tongue. “Same time next week, then.”

 

 

Chanyeol is trying to get Joohyun into his lap for a photo. She absolutely refuses to oblige, even though Kyungsoo can tell she wants to—but they’re in public, _babe,_ and _everyone’s around (!)_.

They’re all gathered in Chanyeol’s bar for the night, piled into a tufted VIP booth on the second floor that Chanyeol keeps open for his friends. Kyungsoo loves this place. It’s sleek and industrial but surprisingly homey and smells like leather and whiskey. The lighting’s great, too—bright enough for conversation but dim enough for a drunken nap when a guy needs it. There’s a live band playing downstairs, and most of the patrons on this slow Thursday night are classmates of the band members from Hongik University. This means they have the second floor pretty much to themselves—which is why Chanyeol is bent on finagling some PDA out of the beautiful Bae Joohyun.

Jongin looks hilariously unimpressed as Chanyeol pouts at his girlfriend from underneath his fringe. Kyungsoo can’t decide if he wants to laugh out loud or throw up, so he settles for smacking Chanyeol upside the head. (Violence is an important and well-kept tradition within their group.) Chanyeol, that indestructible beanpole of a man, is only stunned momentarily. Then he’s back to pillowing his lips and stamping his feet like the Kim boys’ three-year-old niece.

Joohyun watches Chanyeol, mouth agape (like she can’t believe how childish he’s being) but eyes sparkling (like she might actually give in to the cute).

“Noona,” Jongin states with unflinching conviction, “you can do so much better.”

“Noona,” Sehun chimes in from Joonmyun’s lap (naturally), “you should have waited for me.”

“Baby.” Chanyeol pitches his voice low, which means he’s trying to be flirtatious. “Come to daddy.”

That actually makes Jongin gag. Joonmyun smiles helplessly, because he set them up, much to his own chagrin. Sehun only hides his face in Joonmyun’s neck—although Kyungsoo suspects this is less about how embarrassing Chanyeol is being and more about how nice Jongin’s brother smells.

“Joohyun-noona.” Kyungsoo turns to her, brows sloping in real concern. “Why?”

Joohyun unleashes the prettiest peal of laughter, like a string of small bells caught in the wind. “You guys are mean.” She pokes a finger into Chanyeol’s cheek, where he’s got a dimple. He preens at her like a small pet who’s just been given a treat.

“Your boyfriend’s shameless,” Jongin reasons, like he’s telling her the sky is blue.

“He _is_.” Joohyun looks straight at Chanyeol, and he basks in her gaze like he’s sunning himself in it. “But he’s just so handsome, you know?”

“Thanks, baby.” Chanyeol wiggles his eyebrows, casually reaching out to flick Jongin on the forehead. Kyungsoo swipes at his fingers before they can do any real damage, and Chanyeol rolls his eyes with a smirk. “ _Come on_ ,” he directs to Joohyun, thumping his knobby knees. “Picture time with oppa.”

“Oppa?” Kyungsoo puts in. “You’re younger, you perv.”

Joohyun makes a face. “It’s only by a year...”

Jongin wraps both hands around her forefinger. “Noona,” he chides, his voice plaintive enough to tease a grin out of her. “Make him stop.”

Even Joonmyun hops on this one. “Yeol, you’re scaring the children.”

Chanyeol’s _ha!_ slices through the room, cutting clean over the din downstairs.

“And Joohyun.” Joonmyun turns to her, his stern professor voice at full intensity. Her brows shoot into her hairline. “I’m telling Seulgi all the terrible things you’ve been up to when she and Baekhyun finally decide to get here.”

Sehun, who has leaned away from Joonmyun to watch him ~lay down the law~, collapses back against him. His laughter rips out of him like a car horn.

“Hey!” Joohyun cries, pulling out of Jongin’s hold. She pitter-patters her tiny fists over Joonmyun’s shoulders, then Sehun’s, in painless rebuke, mumbling under her breath about _privacy._ Chanyeol looks on, smug and smitten.

“I’m going for a smoke,” Jongin announces, throwing his napkin on the table like the napkin is Chanyeol and the table is a trash pile. “This is too much to come back to after two years in the army.”

“Baby, they’re leaving,” Chanyeol informs Joohyun, as though she hasn’t been at the same table within earshot this entire time. His palms drum an excited beat over his thighs. “Quick!”

Joohyun’s resigned herself to her fate—Kyungsoo read her right from the start. She sighs, smoothing down her skirt before perching herself on Chanyeol’s lap. She looks small and dainty, like a teacup at the edge of a bench. Chanyeol’s giant teeth flash. Joohyun stifles a grin. She hooks her arms around his neck and pecks him quickly on the cheek. “All right,” she says, as Chanyeol visibly melts against her. “Let’s take a picture, oppa.”

It’s with a huff that Jongin directs his attention across the table to where Kyungsoo is seated. “You coming, hyung?” he asks. He’s taken the bite out of his tone, the way he always does when speaking with his favorite. Joonmyun once compared it to the way Chanyeol speaks to Joohyun—only, where Chanyeol’s affection is all flourish and jazz hands, Jongin’s is delicate, everything culminating in the soft curve of a lip.

Kyungsoo only started seeing this when he was told. Now he can’t un-see it.

“Yeah.” He takes the hand Jongin offers him long enough to pull himself up. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and then slides his hand loose.

The terrace on the second floor has a great view of the neighborhood. It’s past nine now, which means everything’s lit up. From his perch on one of the metal stools Chanyeol’s installed by the railing, Kyungsoo can make out the Cuban café where he sometimes grabs _cortados_ for a quick caffeine fix. It reminds him, suddenly, of a question lingering in the back of his mind.

“Why do you drink coffee now?” he asks, passing his lighter to Jongin so Jongin can light his cigarette first.

Jongin takes a deep drag. “The guys in my unit got me on it.” He luxuriates in the exhale, looking like a French movie star, just the way he did when they’d tried their first sticks as teenagers. Jongin cups his hand around the lighter and reignites the flame, so Kyungsoo can dip his cigarette into it. “Why are we talking about coffee?”

“I smelled it on you when we picked you up at the base last week.” Kyungsoo takes a puff and blows it out, careful not to hit Jongin in the face. “It’s weird. You hate coffee so much.”

Jongin hums, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray. “You hate one-night stands,” he says in a light tone, “but here you are, having a one-year stand.”

That came out of nowhere. Kyungsoo shoves him on the chest, sputtering, “How is that the same thing?”

Jongin doesn’t budge an inch. His next exhale is clipped, and he licks his lips right after. “How is it different?” he asks with the same nonchalance. “Before I left for the army, you never used to sleep around. Said it was too messy for you.” He flicks his cigarette again.

There is a faint coil of tension in the pit of Kyungsoo’s stomach that he chooses to ignore. “I’m not ‘sleeping around,’” he says pointedly. “What exactly did Joonmyun-hyung tell you? There’s a woman I see sometimes—just one—and that’s it.”

“Sometimes?” Jongin rolls the filter of his cigarette between his fingers. “My brother says you have a standing appointment every two weeks.” He flicks his stick _again,_ even though there isn’t enough ash on it to flick. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. “But that’s none of my business, right?”

 _Oh no,_ Kyungsoo thinks to himself. _Be careful, now._ Jongin is standing too straight to be relaxed, and modulating his voice so it stays perfectly even. This is a bad sign. He usually sounds so melodic, so happily nasal and quietly whiny and completely unstudied when he’s at ease.

“Hey.” Kyungsoo hooks his spare fingers into the hem of Jongin’s buttondown. It’s creased from being tucked in earlier. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jongin says, and he puts a little more space between them so Kyungsoo has to drop his hand.

Only, Kyungsoo holds on tighter, reeling him back in. “Why are you upset, kid?”

“Stop calling me a kid,” Jongin says, not moving away this time, but not coming closer, either. “I’ve been to the army and back, for God’s sake, hyung.”

His words have an ugly ring to them, like metal clanging against cement. Kyungsoo feels himself flinch, shoulders tightening and chest bracing, as though his body expects some kind of blow. Jongin would never hurt him—but it feels like there’s pain in store, nonetheless. Kyungsoo lets his fingers slacken, so that the shirt falls out of his grasp.

To his surprise, Jongin clings to his forefinger. It’s the same cute thing he’d done to Joohyun earlier, only there’s nothing cute about it this time. It’s just…sad.

“Hyung,” Jongin starts, the skin of his palm hot around Kyungsoo’s finger. “Do you remember what we talked about before I left?”

Twenty-five-year-old Kim Jongin the night before his enlistment, head freshly shaved, hands cupping Kyungsoo’s face, lips confessing a long-held secret. He’d been drunk, but in earnest. Kyungsoo had been taken aback, but he hadn’t taken him seriously. Not really.

He couldn’t.

“I…remember,” he replies, delayed understanding mingling fast with guilt. “But Jongin—”

“Nothing’s changed for me,” Jongin tells him, two embers for eyes, and the words in Kyungsoo’s mouth turn to dust. A warm hand squeezes his finger. “You?”

This is where the blow will come. Kyungsoo feels it like the wet in the air before a rainstorm.

(He just hadn’t realized _he_ would be the one giving it.)

“Oh, Jongin...” All the breath in his body balloons inside his lungs. “I’m…sorry.”

Jongin’s eyelids shutter, and the spark behind them snuffs itself out. He stops squeezing Kyungsoo’s finger, but his thumb is still pressed into Kyungsoo’s palm. Kyungsoo touches his fingertips to it, trying to preempt his next words with what meager consolation he can offer. Because he knows it will hurt Jongin, even more than he’s hurting now, the moment he says, “Nothing’s changed for me, either.”

Jongin takes his hand away. His mouth sags at the corners. “Are you sure, hyung?” His voice is the hush over a morning lake, terribly still and full of secret things. “I thought you might change your mind, while I was away.”

Kyungsoo’s skin goes clammy. “I’m sure.” He doesn’t know what to do with his hand, still suspended in midair.

Jongin gnaws his bottom lip raw. “You came to see me at the base so many times. That made me so happy, hyung. I thought maybe…you might have missed me.” His voice trembles around the word ‘missed.’

Kyungsoo brings his hand to his mouth, rubbing his palm over the dry skin. His heart is beating so fast. “Of course I missed you,” he starts, gentle as can be, trying unsuccessfully to draw Jongin’s eyes back to his own. “I missed you so much. Just—”

“Just not the way I thought you did.” Jongin looks away, chest heaving, chin tipped like he’s come up for air. His jaw is clenched painfully tight. “I get it.”

Kyungsoo feels helpless like this, with his hands loose and empty by his sides, the meter separating him from his most beloved friend feeling like a mile. His heart is hammering loud enough to hear. “Jongin, come here. Please? Look at me. I’ve hurt you…”

Jongin shakes his head. He stubs out his cigarette. “Ah, well,” he says, scratching the top of his forehead and effectively hiding his face from view. He grabs his box of Raisons from the railing and shoves them into his pocket. “Don’t worry about it, hyung.”

His face is in the light now. He looks a little wild in the eyes, as though he’s just been struck.

Kyungsoo wants to hug him so badly. “Jonginnie—”

That gets him cut off. “I gotta go, hyung.” Jongin’s voice is shaking. He tries to disguise it with a laugh. He won’t meet Kyungsoo’s eyes or stop fidgeting with his cigarettes. “I’m sorry for dredging this up again. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I would never think that.” Kyungsoo slides off his stool. “I think you’re the best. You know I do.” He takes a couple steps forward to match the ones Jongin’s taken backward.

Jongin finally looks up then, and it’s a bullet to the chest when Kyungsoo sees how red his eyes are. “Let me go, hyung, please? Please, I’m so…” He licks the backs of his teeth, choking back a silent sob. Kyungsoo freezes. “Don’t make me fucking cry in front of you.”

This is torture, seeing the exact dosage of pain he has dispensed spreading through Jongin like a poison. He’s pale with it, and his grown-man body looks impossibly small.

“Go,” Kyungsoo tells him gently, feeling cruel and powerless in equal measure. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Don’t,” Jongin shoots back. A mix of remorse and bewilderment swirls across his face. “Please don’t,” he amends, softening it with his wet gaze and the tremor in his voice. He looks utterly abandoned. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you. Okay?”

Jongin slides the terrace door open, hastily wiping any proof of emotion off his face. In the brief moment the door is ajar, Kyungsoo hears Baekhyun yell, “There you are, sexy boy!”

When Jongin slides the door shut, Kyungsoo is the abandoned one, gripped by the terrifying feeling that he has rushed into an unchangeable thing unprepared. 

 

 

It’s Thursday night again. Shin-hye’s making him a midnight snack, dressed only in Kyungsoo’s half-buttoned shirt and a pair of panties. He’d come over to her place about two hours before, upon her invitation—their usual song and dance this time of week. She’d met him at the door, draped in La Perla and smelling of lavender. As soon as she stopped kissing him (a pause they filled simultaneously with “Hey”), Kyungsoo hoisted her legs around his waist and carried her to the bedroom. 

He hasn’t heard from Jongin in three days.

They’re sitting in Shin-hye’s kitchen now: a stainless steel, reclaimed wood oasis that looks very much like Kyungsoo’s own. She sets down a grilled cheese for him to eat, then a glass of warm milk. He cuts a dubious glance at her when she gestures for him to take a sip.

“Calcium’s good for growing boys,” she teases, eyes twinkling. “Makes you taller.”

“I’m middle-aged,” Kyungsoo replies, with a set to his mouth. He knows she threw that ‘taller’ thing in there to rile him up, because he’s only got an inch on her. “I couldn’t get any taller if I mainlined this stuff into an artery.”

Shin-hye sips the milk herself, since he won’t touch it. “It’s a good thing you’re sexy.” She presses her lips against Kyungsoo’s jaw. “Kids these days are so sensitive.”

He angles to capture her mouth, sliding his tongue inside so he can make her lose her breath. Over the past year that they’ve maintained this arrangement, the dynamic has shifted from Shin-hye leading and Kyungsoo following to Kyungsoo meeting her toe to toe. He loves how self-assured she is, how settled in her own skin and cognizant of what she likes, without being cocky. She tells him she likes how serious he is; how he always accomplishes what he sets his mind to, like producing a leg of _jamón ibérico_ for her out of thin air or getting her to come more than once in one night.

“I like seeing you under me,” she confesses to him, straddling his stomach and dipping her fingers into his mouth for him suck. “You’re so pretty.” Even when she’s covered in sweat and the sticky traces of their pleasure, she always manages to stay in control.

Kyungsoo’s response is always physical—a stroke up her thigh, down her belly—because he never really knows what to say to that. No one’s ever spoken to him this way before; called him pretty, much less sexy. Except maybe Baekhyun, when he’s looking to exasperate, which doesn’t count for shit. Jongin, once, when he was dead-drunk—which Kyungsoo isn’t sure counts or not.

He desperately wants to call Jongin first. He’s been thinking about it since Jongin left him on the terrace of Chanyeol’s bar, dead cigarette in one hand and Jongin’s bleeding heart in the other. He’d watched Jongin head out the entrance downstairs and make his way to his car, hands pushed deep into his jean pockets. Jongin had kept his head down, and he hadn’t looked back or up. If he had, Kyungsoo would have called out to him to get some rest, given him a soft look, a wave—something, _anything,_ to mend this forced separation. He knows he’s being dramatic, because three days of silence hardly constitutes a rift. But Jongin is an open door in a maze of dead ends, and he’s never shut himself off from Kyungsoo like this.

 _I’m calling him tonight,_ Kyungsoo swears to himself, even though he knows he won’t. _I don’t care_ , he thinks bitterly, even though he cares so much, he hasn’t gotten a decent sleep in days.

His mouth is swollen. He’s been working it on Shin-hye for hours, everywhere she’s asked for it. The fact that it isn’t slotted against hers anymore, when they were necking heavily just a second ago, hits him like a slap. When did they stop kissing?

Kyungsoo blinks himself back into alertness. Shin-hye’s not even in his immediate space at this point. Her chin is perched on her palms, and her elbows are perched on the counter, where she’s watching him with curious eyes.

Kyungsoo feels like such a loser. “Sorry about that, noona,” he says, tripping over the words in his haste to get them out. “I didn’t mean to.”

Shin-hye shrugs patiently, _no big deal._ His shirt slides off her shoulder. “Where’d you go just then?”

“Nowhere.” Kyungsoo leans over the counter to peck her top lip. She lets him, but doesn’t close her eyes. “Just preoccupied with work,” he lies.

She hums. “Business good?” She undoes the top button of the shirt she’s wearing—one of the four she bothered to fasten before calling it a day.

“It’s great,” Kyungsoo says, watching her round the counter and saunter his way. _Focus,_ he tells himself. _Stop thinking about your fucking dongsaeng._

She undoes a second button, this time from the bottom. “Seungsoo and the family doing good?”

“They are.” Kyungsoo scratches his forearm, suddenly self-conscious. “Hyung’s wife is pregnant again.”

“That’s great.” Shin-hye smiles, catlike in the swing of her hips. “You’ll tell him I said congratulations?”

“Yes, noona.” _You’re about to get laid right now,_ Kyungsoo intones _. Get all this shit out of your system._  

“Last question.” Shin-hye undoes a third button, and Kyungsoo can make out the inner curves of her breasts. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”

She’s right in front of him now, close enough for him to push aside the fabric of his shirt and touch. He doesn’t. The way that shirt is hanging off her, crumpled at the bottom, reminds him of his last conversation with Jongin and how weakly he’d tried to hold on to him before things took a turn for the worst.

“Just you.”

Shin-hye chuckles under her breath. There goes the last button. “You’re sweet, Kyungsoo.” She pushes his shirt off her body. “That’s why I like you.”

The way she says that shifts the atmosphere between them. Like in the span of time it took for her to strip off his shirt, she’s flipped the switch from seductive to superior. Now Kyungsoo’s not sure if he _is_ about to get laid, even if Shin-hye’s standing in front of him, three-quarters naked. (Neither is he sure that he minds if the answer is no—but that’s another thought he will mull over another time.)

“Thanks—”

“But you’re not really seeing me.” Shin-hye’s in just her underwear now, skin glowing, dripping with sensuality. But she doesn’t look turned on at all—in fact, Kyungsoo thinks it’s the complete opposite. “You know that, right?”

“Noona?”

“We’re just having sex,” she says, “and I think we’re done for the night.”

She hands his shirt over. Kyungsoo takes it slowly, until she nods at him, smile perfunctory, and he puts it back on. He watches Shin-hye re-enter her bedroom, long, bare legs leading up to a perfect ass and the slim waist Kyungsoo always grabs on to when they’re tangled in bed together. She walks out a few moments later with the rest of his clothes hanging over her arm and a robe wrapped snugly around her.

Once Kyungsoo’s dressed—and he does it fast, because this is starting to get _really_ awkward—she pecks him on the forehead. “Bye,” she says. “You were great tonight.”

She brushes his bangs out of his face with two of her fingers. Kyungsoo thinks this is his cue to kiss her goodbye, so he cranes down and parts his mouth to lay one on her.

All he catches is cheek, because Shin-hye has deliberately turned her face.

 _This is bad,_ Kyungsoo thinks. _Really bad._

The visual that pops into his head is a word glowing neon, announced with gusto by an unseen commentator, the way it would appear in one of Jongin’s basketball animes when the protagonist misses a hoop:

_~*REJECTED*~_

“Come back when you’re not so preoccupied.” Shin-hye pats him on the cheek, like she’s a long-suffering coach and he’s a middling player stuck on the bench. “Or don’t.”

When she ushers him out, shoes in hand, Kyungsoo wonders what kind of sorry bastard blows it twice in the same week.

 

 

Jongin kisses him once, the week after he turns sixteen. Jongin is thirteen, dancer-skinny and still short enough for Kyungsoo to speak to at eye level. The Kim boys, his long-time neighbors, are at his house for the afternoon, a balmy Saturday. Whiz kid Joonmyun has been appointed by Mrs. Kim as Kyungsoo’s math tutor—a special favor for her pal Mrs. Do. Young Jongin is lumped into the package because Mrs. Do has noticed her son is more amenable to tutoring when he is around. (“Your boy’s better than a puppy,” she tells Mrs. Kim with a smile. “Makes Kyungsoo less moody.”) 

Halfway through Kyungsoo’s trigonometry lesson, Joonmyun takes a call from his then-girlfriend, a dark-haired wisp of a girl whom Kyungsoo is ambivalent about. Before Joonmyun steps out, he leaves behind three impossible equations for Kyungsoo to answer. Jongin glances at them over his manhwa, meeting Kyungsoo’s bewildered gape with pitying eyes. They look more like architectural blueprints than high school math homework. Kyungsoo’s vision swims with numbers and formulas he just can’t ( _can’t_ ) absorb.

In no time at all, his pencil is on the table, next to his cheek.

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo grumbles, “aren’t you supposed to get smarter as you age?”

“I dunno, hyung,” Jongin says, pulling out the lollipop in his mouth and placing his comic book on his lap. He places his cheek on the table, too, so he and Kyungsoo can talk face to face. “The numbers get meaner to me every year.”

Kyungsoo’s ensuing smile is a big, broad one that Jongin mirrors with his own; two half-slices of white teeth and smooshed cheek reflecting. 

Instead of doing Kyungsoo’s homework, they talk about Jongin’s manhwa, and why Jongin thinks Kyungsoo should read it right after he’s done with it, because it’s about tennis and _a life-changer._ They talk about the American cooking show Kyungsoo is obsessed with, and how he finally got his mom to get the skin on her chicken to crisp up without burning it after the last episode he watched. They talk about Joonmyun, how big of a dork he is, how they sort of adore him even though they’d rather die than admit it _because_ of how big of a dork he is, and how boring they both find his girlfriend even though she’s the hottest girl at school. They talk until they run out of things to talk about, words fading away like waves against a shoreline. In the brief swell of silence that ensues, Jongin’s eyelids start to droop.

“Cute kid.” Kyungsoo ignores the fact that he’s pretty much a kid himself. “Take a nap. I’ll finish up here.”

“I don’t need a nap,” Jongin says, blinking hard to fight off the urge. “I’m not sleepy.”

“Okay,” Kyungsoo whispers, knowing full well that the younger boy will be asleep in minutes.

The space between one blink and the next has gotten noticeably longer. The movement is syrupy, the muscles in Jongin’s face melting into something of a pool on the surface of the table. Kyungsoo counts the seconds under his breath, _ten, nine, eight,_ noting the throaty sound in Jongin’s breathing, _seven, six, five,_ watching as Jongin’s upper lashes kiss his lower lashes, _four, three, two…_

“I’m not sleeping, hyung,” Jongin mumbles, even though his eyes are nine-tenths of the way closed. “I’m watching you.”

Kyungsoo slides forward, cheek first, the rest of his body following suit. “You’re so competitive,” he says, and he bumps their foreheads together. “When I was a cute kid like you, I took naps all the time.”

“Shut up, hyung.” Jongin’s eyes are completely shut. “M’thirteen. M’not a kid.”

“I’ll wake you up when Mom brings in the snacks,” Kyungsoo promises.

He strokes the hair on the back of Jongin’s head, already too long and shaggy for this sweltering summer. He’s just so _irresistible,_ with his fat cheeks and slack mouth and mop hair; the human version of those fluffy puppies they coo over together on YouTube. Kyungsoo wishes he had his phone with him so he could take a picture and use it as Jongin’s display photo in his contacts, where he has Jongin’s number saved under the name “Pet.” But he’s left his phone on his bed, a whole three meters away, and Jongin looks too precious right now to be left unattended.

Kyungsoo angles higher to dry-peck him on the forehead, the way Joonmyun likes to whenever Jongin unwittingly slips into maknae mode. Kyungsoo’s never tried before, skinship being something foisted upon him (with violence) by his friends, and rarely initiated on his part. But…he just feels like it, and it’s actually nice. Jongin’s skin is warm and soft, like the belly of a baby, and he’s too sleepy to move, which means Kyungsoo doesn’t get smacked for his stolen kiss the way Joonmyun always does for his. The melon scent of Jongin’s shampoo clings to the insides of Kyungsoo’s nostrils as he angles back in place.

He feels the softness of Jongin’s lips against his lips first, then the moisture of Jongin’s breath inside his mouth.

“Thanks hyung,” Jongin mutters, sleep-drunk, with Kyungsoo’s lower lip slotted between his two. “For taking care of me.”

Shock is a bucket of ice water dunked over his head, freezing his body rigid as he jerks away from the kiss. It’s not his first, by any means—Bang Minah had done the honors the year prior—but it’s certainly the first time he’s been kissed by a boy. It feels much the same, only less urgent (Minah had been chasing the prize of a party dare). More…sticky. When Kyungsoo licks his lips, completely on impulse, they taste like the lollipop Jongin had had in his mouth earlier. The sugary traces of it stain the center of Jongin’s lips. Cherry red.

“Don’t do that again,” Kyungsoo says loudly, sitting up straight, face tinged pink. “That’s not funny, Jongin.”

But Jongin is already sound asleep. His red mouth is still parted the same way Kyungsoo left it, and his shoulder blades rise and fall in a somnolent rhythm. One minute turns into two, then ten, as Kyungsoo watches him with wide eyes. _It must’ve been a mistake,_ the older boy concludes, logic racing to overtake disbelief. _He must’ve been going for my cheek or something…_

Only when Kyungsoo’s pencil rolls off the table and makes a crisp sound against the floor as its lead tip snaps off does Jongin stir.

“Mmm.” His eyes barely flutter open before they close again. “I’m not sleeping, hyung.”

“Okay,” Kyungsoo murmurs, still a little dazed. Déjà vu twirls around him on tiptoes.

“I’m just resting my eyes.”

Kyungsoo picks up his pencil and the piece of broken lead. “Okay.”

“When your mom brings in the snacks,” Jongin says, already slurring his words, “dibs on the roasted seaweed.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t answer this time. Jongin stretches an arm out over the table to pillow his head and sinks back into the embrace of slumber. It’s as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Kyungsoo’s not entirely sure anything has.

Not long after, Joonmyun comes back in from his call. Jongin’s snoring softly on the table, and Kyungsoo’s seated on the opposite end, sharpening his pencil.

“What’d I miss?” Joonmyun asks, slipping his phone into his shirt pocket.

Kyungsoo rolls his pencil through the metal prism, collecting the shavings in his palm to dump them in the bin. He tosses in the broken tip, too, and rubs his fingers together until every last trace of smudgy gray has been erased.

“Nothing,” he tells Joonmyun. “Be quiet, hyung.”

 

 

Kyungsoo sends Jongin a chat message exactly one week after the night at Chanyeol’s bar. It’s deceptively simple and belies the fact that he spent an hour analyzing, revising, and agonizing over every word.

He decides against calling, because Jongin asked him not to, and Kyungsoo doesn’t want to make things worse by breaking his promise.

_Hey_

_How is everything?_

_I haven’t heard from you_

_Please talk to me_

Jongin doesn’t make him wait long—because Jongin, that sweet kid, always wants to make things better. Even when it hurts.

_hyung_

_hi_

_sorry i havent called_

_and sorry for last time_

_i didnt know what to say_  

Kyungsoo’s thumbs fly over his keypad. 

_Don’t say you’re sorry_

_I’m the one who’s sorry_

_Thanks for replying to me_

Three dots on a white screen yield to more words.

_you didnt do anything_

_i made a scene_

_and i made you uncomfortable_

_and i wouldnt let it go_

_im really sorry hyung_

Reading that makes Kyungsoo’s chest ache. He can imagine the expression on Jongin’s face when he wrote it, because he’s all too familiar with how Jongin looks when he thinks he’s done something wrong. His whole face contracts like glass under strain, ready to splinter into pieces. Kyungsoo can’t have that—not now, when they’re not speaking face to face and he can’t reach over and loop an arm around Jongin the minute he starts to crack.

But before he can type out all the consoling things his brain is feeding into his fingertips, the chat box loads more messages.

_theres stuff i want to tell you_

_in person_

_if you wouldnt mind meeting me_

_ill adjust to your schedule hyung_

Regular Jongin would just send him a date, time, and venue and expect Kyungsoo to show up without any context whatsoever. This Jongin is painfully hesitant with him, like Kyungsoo is some stranger instead of a forever friend who knows exactly what kind of porridge Jongin wants when he’s sick and serves as a full-body headrest for him, whether he’s sick or not. 

_Of course I don’t mind_

_Don’t be silly_

_Is today okay?_

_...maybe tomorrow?_

Kyungsoo was really hoping to see him today. He’s missed him for twenty-one months and had him back for two weeks, only to have Jongin maroon himself for seven silent days on a desert island for all Kyungsoo knows. But tomorrow is better than nothing, and Kyungsoo’s just relieved they’re talking again.

_Sure_

_Where do I meet you?_

_ill figure it out & let you know_

_see you hyung_

_thanks_

_You okay?_

_im ok_

_We okay?_

That last message is marked as ‘seen’ immediately after Kyungsoo sends it, but it takes twenty minutes for Jongin to formulate a response. When he finally replies, it’s not quite satisfactory.

_you tell me tomorrow_

Kyungsoo was looking for solace, something to tide him over until Jongin is sitting across from him at some table for two in some quiet café fit for conversation. What he gets, instead, is that familiar clench in his stomach—a reminder of difficult, undisclosed things cached in muscle memory.

  

 

The spring before, Shin-hye asks him if he’s ever slept with a man. Kyungsoo is thrown by that entirely, given that they’re lying in bed together and he’s just tied off the condom they used.

“No,” he tells her, disconcerted. “I’m not…gay.”

Shin-hye looks amused as she rakes damp, stringy bangs off his forehead. Her nails are varnished in a shiny burgundy. “Does a guy have to be gay to sleep with another guy?”

“I…don’t know.” The inside of Kyungsoo’s mouth still tastes like her orgasm. He’s not sure where this line of questioning is coming from—or leading to. “Doesn’t he?”

Shin-hye shrugs, slipping her hand under her cheek to cushion it. “I don’t know either.”

Kyungsoo crooks an eyebrow. “Have you ever slept with a woman?”

“Sure,” Shin-hye counters, laughing when he gawps at her. She seems pleased to have scandalized him. “Clémence. Sophomore year at the Sorbonne.”

“Oh. Wow.” Kyungsoo’s lips shape themselves into a tiny circle. “How was that?”

“Wonderful,” Shin-hye replies, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Was it just…sleeping together?”

“At first. Then, for a while, it wasn’t.”

Kyungsoo fixes his eyes on the woman in bed with him, skin dewy from their sex. “So it was serious? With…” He tries to mimic the way she’d pronounced the foreign name: “Clemons?”

“Clay-mahns,” Shin-hye corrects him. “It means ‘mercy,’ in French.”

“Ah." 

“I’m not sure if it was serious or not.” Her eyelashes are long and shadowy, and they flutter against her skin as she reaches for an answer. “I don’t know _what_ it was. But I only have good memories of it.”

All Kyungsoo can do is hum in response. It’s lame and he knows it, so he pulls the covers up higher over Shin-hye’s shoulders as a distraction. Kyungsoo isn’t some cloistered ingénue; he’s well aware of the complexity of human sexuality, and he _has_ gay friends, both women and men. He’s just never met anyone quite as open as Shin-hye in the homogenous skyscraperland of Seoul, and he’s a little out of his depth here.

Her face has softened in the interim, all that sexy sharpness from her earlier teasing now blunted around the edges. “You have no idea what to do with me,” Shin-hye murmurs, “do you?”

Kyungsoo briefly considers making a dirty joke out of that ( _Haven’t I done enough?~_ ), but decides, with conviction, that he can’t pull it off. So he just shoots her a hangdog grin and shakes his head. “Too square.”

Shin-hye’s hand is back on his face again, pinching him on the nose, then the cheek. “A sexy square,” she sweet-talks him, like she’s speaking to a toddler, “with a heart-shaped ass.” Kyungsoo’s mouth parts when he grumps at her patronizing tone. Shin-hye brushes three questing fingers along the seam of it. “Then you’ve got these dick-sucking lips…”

“What?” Kyungsoo’s brows knot in the center of his forehead. “What does that even mean?” He tries to move his face away, pressing his lips together so they don’t stick out so _dick-sucking_ much.

Shin-hye takes him by the chin with her thumb and forefinger. Easing forward, she presses her lips to his closed mouth, doling out kisses that grow more heated by the second. Soft, wet drags and kitten licks, a low sound at the back of her throat. When Kyungsoo gives up the nun act with a grunt and pulls her half on top of him, opening up so their tongues can meet, that sound soars high with delight.

“It means the kind of lips I could do this with _all day_ ,” Shin-hye declares when she comes up for air. She plants one last kiss on him, hard, pulling off with a smack. “Yum.”

Kyungsoo can feel his awkwardness climbing like a vine on a trellis. Here comes his signature move: a hand gliding over the swathe of her thigh.

Shin-hye mirrors the movement with her own hand sliding up his chest, pinning him underneath her. “Just look at the state of you. You’d have them coming in droves if you were a girl.” She fixes Kyungsoo with a pointed look. “Be honest: you’ve never even been _mildly_ attracted to a guy?”

“Why are you so fixated on this?” Kyungsoo breaks eye contact, wishing immediately after that he hadn’t. Sign of weakness. “I told you, noona—”

Shin-hye waves him off. “Not gay, I know. _Bo_ -ring.” She chuckles; he doesn’t. “But I’ve seen your friends on SNS, and they’re all so _pretty,_ Kyungsoo.”

This is the first time she’s ever shown interest in his life outside of their bedroom activities. “Why were you on my SNS?”

“Checking to make sure you weren’t some psycho serial killer before I decided to sleep with you. Obviously.”

Kyungsoo curls his lip at her, but Shin-hye pays him no mind. She just lowers herself from her palms to her elbows and rests her chin on Kyungsoo’s chest. She stares at him from under her lashes, so blasé. “You never fooled around with any of those pretty boys?”

“No!” Kyungsoo exclaims, his cheeks suffusing with heat.

“Not _once_?”

“ _No,_ noona.”

Undeterred, Shin-hye tucks a few loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. “Not even with the one who came to the restaurant? With the prince face and Chicken Little glasses?”

Kyungsoo’s mouth hangs wide open like a hinge has gotten loose. “Joonmyun?!”

“Joonmyun,” Shin-hye muses, her chin pressing into Kyungsoo’s sternum as she nods with interest.

“Joonmyun is practically my _mother._ ” It frustrates Kyungsoo that, even to himself, his answer sounds defensive. “And he doesn’t go out with guys.” He shuts his eyes. “And neither do I. Like I’ve been telling you.” His sigh is spiky as it exits his throat. Under all that bluster of embarrassment and annoyance, he’s starting to get nervous.

“Okay, okay.” Shin-hye grazes his jaw with her knuckles. “I’ll stop.” Full lips land on Kyungsoo’s throat. There is one soft suck over his Adam’s apple. “Why is Joonmyun practically your mother?”

Kyungsoo is ticklish from her kiss and still on edge. “Because our moms were neighbors,” he replies, “and he helped them raise me. His little brother, too.”

Shin-hye continues to stroke his jaw. It’s a touch more affectionate than before, and feels repentant, somehow. “Does his little brother have a prince face, too?”

“Puppy face, actually,” Kyungsoo says with complete candor. “But better than a puppy.”

Shin-hye giggles lightly, and Kyungsoo relaxes into her hold. The nervy current that had crackled under his skin earlier is slowly dissipating into nothing.

“Sounds like you,” Shin-hye says, and Kyungsoo thinks of Jongin’s discharge date, just two months away.


	2. Chapter 2

This café is cozy and dim, with cracked leather chairs and a wall stacked with records. It looks more like the set of a Japanese drama than a place of actual business. Kyungsoo is not entirely sure how it makes money, seeing as he’s the only person here besides the barista. Jongin is running late—something about a student getting injured at the dance studio, his text had said. Kyungsoo texted him back to take his time and ordered not one, but _two_ iced Americanos. Since Jongin drinks coffee now, or whatever. 

Fifteen minutes past their agreed meeting time, the door of the café swings open to let Jongin rush in. He looks sweaty and stressed, and when Kyungsoo waves at him to get his attention, he waves back but doesn’t smile.

He sits down at Kyungsoo’s table, gnawing on his lip. “Sorry to make you wait, hyung.”

“Hi,” Kyungsoo says, pushing one of the coffees across the table. “How’s Lisa?”

Jongin wraps a hand around the plastic cup. “She’s okay—just shaken. She thought she messed up her knee landing an aerial. Taemin and I took her to the emergency room, just in case.”

“That’s good.” Kyungsoo tries to look interested even though he’s dying to get to the part where they talk about _them_. “She’s the dancer from Thailand, right?” Jongin nods. “And how’re you?”

Jongin shrugs, managing to inch out half a smile. He’s wearing a loose T-shirt and black sweats with the name of the dance studio silk-screened down the sides. Two years ago, when he was still on the skinny side and repulsed by Kyungsoo’s caffeine habit, these clothes would have swallowed him up whole. Today, they hang off him stylish and deliberate, oozing with insouciance, the iced coffee in his hand rounding out the aesthetic.

Kyungsoo doesn’t know why he bothers to catalogue all these details, but it’s like he doesn’t have a choice. His mind has gone off its regular track and is, instead, memorizing everything it can—the stubble patchworked over Jongin’s face, the blue of the bags under his eyes—like it’s preparing itself to have to remember him.

“I’m glad to see you,” Kyungsoo says, because someone has to say something. Besides, it’s true.

Jongin exhales shakily. He doesn’t drop his eyes, which Kyungsoo wants to take as a good sign—just the slope of his brows, so he looks unhappier than before.

“I’m going to try to say this as quickly as I can.” Jongin’s lower lip is ruddy from the vice-like grip of his teeth. “I promised myself I wouldn’t waste your time.”

Kyungsoo considers arguing with him, telling him no time spent with him is wasted and he _knows_ it, but Jongin doesn’t look like he will listen. So Kyungsoo bites his tongue and steadies his gaze, trying to pump all the kindness and understanding he can muster into it.

One last exhale before Jongin begins. “Kyungsoo-hyung.” Both his hands are caged around his untouched coffee. They’re shaking. “Everything I said two years ago, I meant. I know I was drunk. I had to be, really, to say it. But I still remember. And you…” He swallows, loud and sticky. “You said you remember, too?”

The horn section of some jazz music filters through the overhead speakers. But all Kyungsoo can focus on is the longing in that non-question. “I wasn’t lying.”

“Good.” Big, brown eyes bore into his, shiny and stripped of any pretense. “Because I wanted to tell you again. Sober, this time.”

Kyungsoo’s stomach drops to his feet. “Why?”

“So I can be absolutely sure,” Jongin says, “and _you_ can be absolutely sure,” his tongue darts out, wetting both corners of his mouth, “when you tell me you don’t want me.”

Kyungsoo takes that like a bat to the face. He’d had a vague idea of what to expect when he came here today—a hazy outline flowcharted in his head, in the twenty hours between their last text and his arrival at the café. They were going to talk about Jongin, these…feelings he has for Kyungsoo, and the reasons why Kyungsoo hasn’t acknowledged them, even though he’s seen Jongin every other month at his base since Jongin first confessed them into existence. Perhaps they would dip into why Kyungsoo can’t return these feelings—even though Kyungsoo loves him, in his own way, and has never kept that a secret. Having it laid out in front of him like rolls of receipts after a lavish buying trip is different. It’s too real, too visceral, with Jongin’s wet eyes and twisted mouth before him.

“I—”

“I love you, hyung.” There’s a plea skating under the most important word in that sentence, which Kyungsoo hears loud and clear. “I do. I love you. I _have_ loved you, for a long time, for as long as I can remember. Even when I was trying with other people, you’re the only one I’ve ever really wanted.”

Kyungsoo must be bleeding internally, judging by the how lightheaded he is and the way his stomach hurts like it’s been knifed. He _must_ be losing blood right now, or have too much of it in his system, if that’s even possible. He can feel every hot molecule racing through his veins until they burn, flooding his chest until it’s swollen like a balloon, rushing to his head so the room spins out of control.

Jongin is actually _smiling_ at him. Granted, it’s a tiny, bitter smile and makes him look miserable—but it’s there, nonetheless. Kyungsoo wills himself to speak, so he can tell Jongin he doesn’t have to put on a brave face for him.

“You’ve had girlfriends,” is what comes out instead. Kyungsoo hates the way his voice sounds, so meek and unsure. “Really beautiful girlfriends. You used to tell me all the time how much you loved them.”

“I tried to love them,” Jongin ripostes, eyes shifting. “I tried to love my…boyfriends, too.” His fake smile flattens into a thin line when Kyungsoo balks at that sudden admission. “Yeah, I’ve had boyfriends, hyung.”

In the flowchart in his head, there’s a step where Kyungsoo actually convinces him that this whole thing is a phase. That Jongin is not, in fact, in love with him, only infatuated, and that this will pass the same way the pain from all his failed relationships passed—with time, and someone new. But this _boyfriend_ thing throws him for a complete loop.

“You’ve had…”

“Men.” Jongin’s gaze, and the set of his jaw, is resolute. “I’ve had men in my life, hyung. Men in my bed.”

The first thing Kyungsoo can make out in the vortex of emotion that swirls through him is betrayal. It feels cold as ice, and is in complete contrast to the _second_ thing he can make out: the lightning-hot flash of possessiveness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kyungsoo hears himself say in monotone. “I’ve known you for most of your life. I was there when Joonmyun taught you how to ride a bike. I…taught you how to put on a fucking condom, Jongin.” He sounds hurt. He _is_ hurt. So he asks again, “Why didn’t you _tell me_?”

Jongin presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t trust me?”

“I did!” Jongin whips his head up. “I _do_. Only my brother knows…and Sehun…” Kyungsoo’s face falls, and Jongin clocks the movement with a grimace. “Hyung, the only reason I didn’t tell you was because I was ashamed." 

“Ashamed?” Another stab to Kyungsoo’s gut. “That’s nothing to be ashamed about. Did you think that I…Jongin, how could you even…”

Jongin shakes his head vigorously. “I wasn’t ashamed of myself, hyung. I like more than what I’ve been told I should and _can_ like, which is bullshit. I like guys, too, and I know there’s nothing wrong with me.” Frustration flickers across his face, then briefly, fear. He blows out a long stream of air. “I was ashamed, because it didn’t _matter_ if it was a guy or a girl. Don’t you get it?” His eyes are glued to Kyungsoo’s, glassy and distressed, and his voice is starting to waver. “I went through all those people, people who felt real things for me, people whom I knew, sooner or later, I would give up on, because I was just using them to get over you.”

 _This_ must be Kyungsoo’s threshold for pain, because he actually clutches his chest, mouth shaping over words that don’t come. Something jagged, with teeth, has clamped around his heart, and it’s too much. _Too much._ Too much information, too many warring emotions, _way_ too many questions Kyungsoo can’t ask—not when Jongin’s looking at him like he’s preparing to lose him. Kyungsoo can only look back, dumbstruck, as the gravity of the situation descends upon him like the smoke after fireworks. His eyes sting from it. 

When he doesn’t say anything, Jongin’s face goes still. He shuts his eyes. “I’m almost done, hyung,” he promises quietly. “Just one more thing.”

Blinking away the dampness that has gathered in his waterline, Kyungsoo counts the seconds in his head, _one, two, three,_ watching Jongin take slow breaths, _four, five, six,_ seeing defeat in the trembling of his mouth, _seven, eight, nine,_ until Jongin opens his eyes again.

The fear is gone from his face. There’s only resignation now, stretched from ear to ear like a protective mask.

“Tell me you don’t love me.” Jongin places his hands on his lap, and he nods like he’s trying to be encouraging. “Do me a favor. Just reject me, straight out, so I can finally move on.” He nods again, and that one’s clearly meant for himself. “I know you already did,” a hollow chuckle, “but you let me down too easy, hyung, and I don’t think my heart believed you.”

Kyungsoo’s shredded heart starts to throb.

_Don’t do it._

“The last time,” Jongin is saying, “when you told me nothing had changed for you, I took it hard. Really hard. But I didn’t stop hoping I might still have a chance, because you treat me so special, hyung. Even…even Sehun says so. You—” His voice breaks here; an errant note on an untuned piano. “You’ve never told me you _don’t_ love me. Not really. And I really need you to.”

 _Don’t,_ Kyungsoo’s subconscious tells him, and his heart pounds like a drum.

“Please, Kyungsoo-hyung.”

The word _no_ ripples through him, crisp as a drop of water in a still bath.

“Just say it.” Jongin pleads, with melting eyes. “Say it and send me away. I won’t be able to talk to you for a while, but when I do, I’ll never talk about this again. I mean it, this time.”

“But,” Kyungsoo ventures in a timid voice, “I do…love…you."

“It’s not the same thing,” Jongin reasons, tight and strained. “Say it, hyung.”

Sending him away would be mean giving up the shining adoration on Jongin’s face when Kyungsoo makes him truffle mac and cheese; the muffled voice messages Jongin sends him on WhatsApp in the middle of the night because he wants to remind Kyungsoo of a meeting time and place but can’t be bothered to text; the right side of Jongin’s mattress, which molds against Kyungsoo’s body like it was custom-stuffed for him, even with Jongin’s arms and legs webbed over him during their sleepovers. It would mean sealing off the only door that leads Kyungsoo outside of his airtight world, into a space where he can actually breathe and is never, ever lonely. Kyungsoo can’t have that.

“I can’t,” Kyungsoo shakes out, and then: “Don’t leave me.”

He knows he’s done the worst thing when Jongin’s whole body recoils.

“What _am_ I to you?” Jongin snaps, finally. His anger is welcome. Kyungsoo deserves it. “You’ve made it clear, _twice_ now, that you’re not interested, but you won’t cut me loose even when I ask you to.” Jongin’s knuckles are white as they curve over his knees. “You hold me at arm’s length but still want me in the palm of your hand, so you have someone to play house with when the people you _are_ interested in are preoccupied—like So-hyun, in college. Goddammit, hyung, I still have flashbacks of every time you flaked on me for her.” He’s on a roll. “And if they aren't preoccupied, they’re complicated—like this mystery girl you’ve got now. And my…my _purpose_ is to uncomplicate things for you, take your mind off the madness until you’re ready to dive back in. Isn’t that right?” His voice is a taunt, completely unrecognizable. “That’s what I am, aren’t I? Your loyal little Pet?”

It trips out weakly, impulsively, before Kyungsoo can change the wording. “You’re my best friend, Jongin.”

Jongin drops his head, so it hangs low and defeated between his shoulders. “You’re so selfish, sometimes.”

“I know,” Kyungsoo says, hating himself. “But I can’t give you up.”

They stay like that for a minute; Jongin hunched over and silent with his hands steepled in front of him like he’s praying; Kyungsoo leaning towards him, his forearms planted on the table, like there are magnets drawing his shoulders to Jongin’s and only the force of his own stupidity is pulling them apart. A saxophone blares insolently through the speakers, but not even that can fill the dead air between them.

“Fine,” Jongin says, putting finality in his tone. “I’ll give you up, then.”

Kyungsoo gets up at the same time he does. “Wait!” Panic comes as a cold sweat. “Please, can we talk about this?”

Jongin stonewalls him. “What else is there to talk about? I told you how I felt, came out as something other than straight, asked you to put me out of my misery. You won’t, but you did manage to say some nice things before giving me my lifetime pass to the friend zone, so I think that’s an indirect success on both our ends.” He’s gone pale, but his voice doesn’t waver. “I’ve said all I had to say, hyung.”

“Can I—” _Text you? Call you? Catch up with you at your place later to remind you how much fun we have when I’m not breaking your heart?_ Kyungsoo can’t stomach the _no_. “Will I see you at Chanyeol’s thing this weekend?”

Jongin shrugs, eyeing the door. “I’m going now, hyung.” When he passes his hand through his hair, a lock of it falls over his forehead.

Kyungsoo resists, with the strength of twenty men, the urge to brush it back. “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole, Jongin.” He half-reaches for Jongin’s wrist, then thinks better of it, because he’s done enough damage to total the building. He knows Jongin has seen the attempt, and is watching his hand where it now hangs limp by his hip. “You deserve so much better than me.”

Jongin deliberately tucks his hand into his pocket. “If that were true,” he says just before he leaves, “it wouldn’t be so hard to rid myself of you.”

 

 

Joonmyun calls him late that evening, when Kyungsoo is parked in front of his laptop, cataloguing the latest shipments of rosé and the raclette he promised to get Chanyeol from Switzerland.

He picks up on the last ring, because he’s a little afraid of what’s in store. “Yeah, hyung.”

Joonmyun doesn’t bother with greetings. “What did you do?”

Kyungsoo chews on the inside of his cheek. There’s only one thing he could be talking about. “To Jongin, you mean.” 

“Yes, to Jongin. Don’t stall.” Joonmyun’s voice is even, but Kyungsoo can sense an argument looming on the horizon. “He drank himself stupid tonight and won’t tell me what happened. So I’m pretty sure this has to do with his pining after you.”

 _Hyung knows._  

Kyungsoo has been numb since the incident this morning, his nervous system kicking into self-preservation mode. Hearing that makes him feel like he’s been dragged into the ocean by a riptide after just having made it to shore.

“Where is he? Is he okay?” Kyungsoo shuts the lid of his laptop, tingling with an emotion he can’t yet place. It’s just a rush, and it stings.

“Sehun took him to my apartment at the tail-end of a bender. Jongin spewed out everything but his spinal chord in the shower. They’re both in my guestroom now, asleep.” That professor voice is still at moderate intensity, but barbed along the perimeter. “Tell me exactly what you did, so I know exactly what to tell him you did _wrong_.”

Jongin can barely get up for work the day after half a bottle of soju. The fact that he would drink enough to make himself sick does something torturous to Kyungsoo’s insides. He slips his glasses off, hooking them with his pinky so he can massage the bridge of his nose. His head is a mess right now. The spot between his ribs feels bruised. He wants to crawl into his bed, curl up like a centipede and sleep for days, but he knows Joonmyun isn’t beyond beating down his door to get a straight answer.

So he starts from the beginning, the night before Jongin’s enlistment, all the way up to this morning at the café.

“My brother was right,” Joonmyun says as soon as story time’s over. “You’re being really, _really_ selfish.”

Kyungsoo has his eyes glued to his feet, bare and cold against his cement floor. “Yeah.”

“Even after all that, did you really not get how he felt about you?” Joonmyun’s frustration seeps through the phone like the heat of a battery. Kyungsoo chalks it up to the guy’s ten years as a Gen Z educator that he manages not to yell. “It was clear as day to me, and you spend twice the amount of time with him that I do.”

Jongin’s head finding its place on his shoulder in dark movie theaters as the hero gets the girl. Jongin’s hand gripping his when they’re in a big crowd, like the last time they were in a mosh pit and the first time they experienced the Shibuya Crossing. Jongin’s eyes resting steady on his face, warm as a caress, from start to end of countless conversations.

Kyungsoo curls his toes in. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Sometimes,” Joonmyun says, professor mode on, “a simple yes or no will suffice.”

Kyungsoo tries to skirt around the thing. “I knew he was fond of me…”

“It’s more than fondness and you know it.” Joonmyun clicks his tongue, and Kyungsoo bites his. “You’re being juvenile, Soo. Did you or didn’t you?”

Immediately, Kyungsoo is cowed. “I guess…I did.” He’s clutching his phone so tightly, the plastic case creaks in his hand. “I thought it might be, I don’t know, a phase, maybe. Something he was just curious about. Or _confused_ about. I don’t know, hyung. I didn’t—” he stutters, and shuts his eyes. “I didn’t know he was into guys.”

Joonmyun tries, unsuccessfully, to disguise a sigh. “I’m going to spell this out for you, because somebody really needs to.” His breath goes deep inside his lungs, by the sound of it. “He was into you as Kyungsoo before was he was into guys and girls _in general_. He’s always liked you best. Always. Okay?”

Kyungsoo feeds more of his cheek into the grip of his teeth, feeling like a complete idiot. “Did everyone else know?”

“That he’s not a hundred percent straight? Or that he’s a hundred percent in love with you?”

Another sting. “…Both.”

“Only Sehun and I know about the first thing. He told you that. I’m guessing Taemin, too, by now—he was the one who drove them over.”

“And the second thing?”

Here, a pregnant pause. “Everyone can see that you’re special to him, Kyungsoo. And that you’re not completely dense to it.” Joonmyun is choosing his words carefully, Kyungsoo can tell, but his delivery is not gentle. More like an arrow sinking into its target. “Chanyeol and Baekhyun call you ‘the one’ to his face. They’re joking, obviously, because they don’t know the full extent of it. But when those two are conscious of something beyond their own love lives, I think that’s a fair indication of how real this thing is.”

“Okay.” Kyungsoo lets his face drop into the hand that isn’t holding his phone. “Okay. Hyung, I’m not…I’m not like him. I care about him but I’ve never thought about him as anything more than a friend.” That’s not a lie—but the details aren’t quite right, either. There is a tiny niggle at the base of his sternum, prodding at him, as he continues to speak. “I can’t give him what he wants, and it scares me that I might lose him because of that. I—”

Joonmyun’s already interrupting. “I believe you. You’ve only ever been interested in women since I’ve known you, and I know, very well, that’s not something you need to apologize for.” His voice sharpens. “But I don’t appreciate you stringing the kid along because you like the way he worships you. It’s a shitty thing to do.”

Kyungsoo can’t think of anything to say to that. There is a dull throbbing at his temples, like the onset of a migraine, just before the crystal vision hits.

His silence seems to soften Joonmyun up a bit. “I don’t mean to go dad on you,” he says, and Kyungsoo swallows around the lump that forms unexpectedly in his throat. “Jongin wouldn’t want me picking fights with you, even if it was on his behalf.”

“It’s all right, hyung.” Kyungsoo picks at his nails. “I deserve it.”

Joonmyun doesn’t refute him. “Just think about what I said. You don’t want him, and won’t _ever_ want him, so try not to give him the impression that might change someday. False hope is such a dangerous thing, Soo, and you’ve presented him with gallons of it over the years, whether you were aware of it or not.”

The use of Kyungsoo’s nickname is a small but fleeting comfort. “Sorry, hyung.”

Probably because he wants to end on a positive note, the way the best teachers always do, Joonmyun throws him a bone. “You won’t lose him. Not completely. My brother’s devoted to you, even when you’re being a clueless moron.” The encouragement in his voice is tempered with caution. “Just give him some time to forget about you.”

The thought of Jongin forgetting him makes Kyungsoo shrink into himself, but all he says is, “Okay.”

They leave it at that, with Joonmyun graciously reminding him about Chanyeol’s weekend barbecue and Kyungsoo promising not to flake.

“Is Jongin coming?” he asks, as Joonmyun tapers off the conversation to hang up.

“No,” Jongin’s big brother replies, not skipping a beat. “Leave him alone.”

 

 

Shin-hye still manages to smell like lavender after a slippery romp on her living room sofa. She’s stretched across it now, her stomach pressed to Kyungsoo’s lap, knees bent and ankles crossed. He’s halfway through a cigarette, his unoccupied hand settled over her tailbone. They haven’t spoken since he pulled out, and she, astride him, flopped onto her belly to rest. The crackle of burning cigarette paper fills the room, too quiet now for comfort.

Shin-hye looks over her shoulder when Kyungsoo stubs out the last of his stick. “Could I have one of those?”

“Sure.” He pulls two fresh cigarettes from his box with his teeth and lights them both at the same time. He places one between Shin-hye’s lips, waiting for her fingers to find it before letting it go.

“Thanks, sexy.” An elegant inhale, more crackling paper sounds. “I was surprised to hear from you yesterday.”

Kyungsoo lifts his hand off her ass to scratch his chest. “Bad surprise?”

“Not _bad_.” Shin-hye turns on her side, sliding down a little, so the dip of her waist curves over Kyungsoo’s thighs. “Just random.”

She still has her bra on, navy lace, demi cups. They’d been in too much of a rush earlier for Kyungsoo to bother with it. (“I’m going to ride you today,” Shin-hye had informed him as he yanked off her panties and rubbed her with the flats of his fingers. Then she’d divested him of all his clothing and shoved him down, hot and bothered, into her white sectional.) The bra stayed on throughout the whole dirty deed, a (perfectly) fitting spectator. Now, one of its straps is sliding down Shin-hye’s arm, so she looks exceptionally debauched.

Gingerly, Kyungsoo drags it back into place. “I’ll be gone for a while, noona.”

“You’ve _been_ gone for a while,” Shin-hye jests, with a playful eyebrow raise. “I haven’t seen you for, what…maybe a month since the last time?”

“Thereabouts.” Kyungsoo thinks she might take offense if he apologizes for going MIA; reproach him for making their relationship seem like something it isn’t. So he spares her the excuses and makes an observation instead. “You weren’t at the bistro the last time I made a delivery.”

“That’s right.” Shin-hye makes an interested sound. “The kitchen staff told me you came by.”

That was a few days after the barbecue at Chanyeol’s duplex. Baekhyun had tickled Seulgi to her tipping point, which culminated in her pushing him into Chanyeol’s pool fully dressed and Joohyun peeing herself laughing. Joonmyun’d hugged Kyungsoo when he arrived, late, doing most of the talking while Kyungsoo struggled to find his place in the revelry. Sehun had kept more distance, only bowing civilly and passing food when asked to, like he wanted to punish Kyungsoo for something he’d done wrong. Kyungsoo hadn’t taken it against him. Jongin was a no-show.

(“Work trip with Taemin,” was what Joonmyun told the group.)

It feels like history repeating itself: Kyungsoo stripped down in Shin-hye’s apartment, still sweaty from their exertions, thinking of Jongin, not having heard from him in a while. Only this time, it’s been weeks, not days, since their last conversation, and Kyungsoo is on eggshells trying not to get distracted by that.

“I think I was at my dance class,” Shin-hye is saying, the words muffled in Kyungsoo’s ears like she’s speaking to him underwater.

“Something like that.” Kyungsoo clears his throat. He pops his ears, too, for good measure. “So, yeah, I’ll be in Italy for two months. You need anything special for the restaurant?”

Shin-hye absentmindedly strokes his ab lines. “Two whole months? Lucky you.” She’s always touching him this way, as though the fact that he has muscle definition fascinates her. When she sneaks a finger into his belly button, his stomach jumps, and she laughs. “I liked the balsamic vinegar you got me last time, and that white wine that smelled like apples.” Her tongue follows the route her fingers had taken. “Surprise me?”

It feels good, especially now that Shin-hye’s experimentally moving south. But Kyungsoo has a message for Jongin drafted in his phone that needs sending, and the thought of it keeps the temptation dry.

He slides his thumb in her mouth for her to suck instead, then draws her upright by the chin.

“Mmm?” Shin-hye throws a leg over his thighs so she can straddle him. Her cigarette is crushed into the ashtray. “What is it?”

Kyungsoo cups her hips to hold her steady. “We have a lot of fun, don’t we, noona?”

She combs all ten fingers through his hair, forcing his head back on the sofa. “A _lot_ of fun.”

“I’ve just always wondered…”

Shin-hye holds his mouth in place so she can ladle a kiss into it. “Use your words, Kyungsoo.”

He uses exactly two. “Why me?”

She pulls off, bemused. “Why you _what_?”

“Why are you doing this with me?” Kyungsoo licks under his lip, feeling the indentations left by his teeth. “You could get a serious boyfriend if you wanted. Probably overnight.”

The _ah_ Shin-hye mouths is full of amusement. She’s pushing up to her knees now, passing up the opportunity to bounce in his lap again for a better idea. Her slender arms bracket his head, and she looms over him, breasts mounding over dark blue balconettes. Kyungsoo smells lavender on her skin and in her hair, shrouding his face like a curtain.

“I could,” Shin-hye says with a provocative look, “but sexy boytoys are much more entertaining than serious boyfriends.” She flips all her hair over one shoulder. The lavender becomes less intoxicating. “Easy come, easy go.”

“Are you calling me easy?” Kyungsoo quips, because it’s low-hanging fruit. Usually this kind of flirty, dirty talk gets him all gassed up and ready to go, but today his banter feels mechanical.

Shin-hye smirks at him. “Nothing about you is easy, Kyungsoo. You’ve got a half-naked woman in your lap right now with her boobs in your face and no underwear, and all you can think to probe is why she isn’t in a conventional relationship."

Kyungsoo bites his lip. _Loser, loser, loser._ “I was just curious about you, is all.” He kisses the tops of said boobs, sucking lightly on the mole near her cleavage for good measure.

Shin-hye’s puts one hand on his shoulder and another on his crown, sinking fingers into his hair. She’s a puller. With renewed determination, Kyungsoo tugs down the cups of her bra until she spills over them. Shin-hye’s hum of interest turns into a tight groan as he noses around a nipple.

“I’m curious about something, too,” she says, panting lightly as Kyungsoo plants her, ass to thigh, on his lap.

Kyungsoo’s sticks his face in between her tits. “Yes?”

She steers him out of there with his bangs. “Why do you always work so hard at something that should be effortless?” She stares at his mouth, hungry, but doesn’t kiss him. “Do you not like sex sometimes?”

“What?” Kyungsoo feels impossibly exposed, even though he’s been writhing on this couch, in his birthday suit, for over an hour. “Who doesn’t like sex?”

“Virgins,” Shin-hye says dryly, and Kyungsoo tries to laugh. ”No judgment. You make a _fabulous_ dick appointment,” she bites the tip of his nose, “but you always seem to be running from something when you come here. Even now, you haven’t stopped running.”

“You’re imagining things,” Kyungsoo replies, and he flips her on her back. Her hair fans out behind her on the cushions, silky and dark. “Can I have more sex now, noona?”

“Poser,” is the last thing Shin-hye manages to say that isn’t his name. Kyungsoo makes sure every thrust gets her to cry out, louder each time, until his name hits a crescendo, and Jongin’s name is just a wayward note, swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner.

 

 

_Jongin_

  _Your brother told me you were down with the flu_

_I bet it’s because you’ve been walking around in this rain_

_without your umbrella as usual_

_Hope you feel better soon_

_Take the Manuka honey I brought you from New Zealand_

_It’s good for colds and strep throats_

  _Not sure if any of the guys told you but_

_I’ll be in Italy until September –_

_If you want anything_

_Just text me_

  _Maybe we can grab a drink when I get back_

_If you have time_

  _I miss you_

  _-Kyungsoo-hyung_

 

 

The autumn of his senior year at SNU, Kyungsoo meets Kim So-hyun. She’s a peach-skinned freshman, studious and shy, with the prettiest smile he has ever seen. The first few times Kyungsoo angles for a date, So-hyun rebuffs him (“Must be your serial killer eyes,” Chanyeol says sympathetically). Eventually, though, she agrees to coffee (“Must be your Megan Fox lips,” Chanyeol teases, all toothy).

One innocuous cuppa turns into twenty candlelit dinners, and by Christmas, Kyungsoo’s got a girlfriend.

Jongin’s a freshman, too, and going out with Jung Soojung. A rising model with her face in Korean _Elle,_ Soojung is considered the queen of the underclassmen. Kyungsoo still thinks his girl is prettier (warmer, sweeter), but he has to admit that Soojung and his friend make a fine pair.

Kyungsoo only meets her a handful of times, and always in passing, because Jongin likes to keep her to himself. They run into each other on campus constantly—Kyungsoo and So-hyun holding hands, Soojung with her arms around Jongin’s neck. As the sunbae (and Jongin’s hyung), it is incumbent on Kyungsoo to extend the double-date invite, each and every time. And each and every time, Jongin draws Soojung in by the waist and says, “Maybe next time, hyung. We’ve got plans.”

After half a dozen failed attempts, Kyungsoo’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“Are you afraid I’m going to tell Soojung all the weird things I know about you?” he asks one day, when he and Jongin are grabbing lunch on a long break. It’s ramen, as usual.

“What weird things?” Jongin picks up the small heap of scallions on top of Kyungsoo’s noodles with his chopsticks and dumps it into his own bowl. Kyungsoo hates scallions.

“Thanks.” Kyungsoo pries two napkins from the wire holder on their table. He sets one next to Jongin and takes the other for himself. “Like how you cry all the time watching Pixar clips on YouTube?”

Jongin slurps up a sheet of noodles. “She’s seen me do that.”

“Like how you bark and whine at your family’s dogs to communicate with them?”

“She’s seen me do that, too.” Slurp, slurp.

“Like how you read Harry Potter fanfiction before bed,” and Kyungsoo can’t help but snort here, “even though you’ve never read the books and have only seen the movies?”

Through the sheer white steam wafting out of his bowl, Jongin’s scowl is perfectly visible. “What’s the matter with that?”

“Ah.” Kyungsoo’s grin is a wicked, wicked one. “So _that’s_ why you keep her hidden away.”

Jongin wipes his mouth with the napkin Kyungsoo prepared for him. “Hidden away? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kyungsoo’s phone beeps on the table. He glances briefly at the illuminated screen—an SMS from So-hyun. “You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.” He picks up his phone. “Don’t play coy.”

_oppa~_

_raincheck on dinner tonight? :(_

_have to study for my chem final T_T_  

Jongin lifts his bowl to his lips to sip the hot broth. “Hyung,” he says between two long draughts, “that’s all in your mind.”

Kyungsoo is frowning at his phone. He’d made reservations at a swanky Spanish place in Cheongdamdong—a reservation three months in the making, thanks to a ridiculously long waitlist. The first date that opened up (tonight) coincided with the first show of Jongin’s university dance troupe. When Kyungsoo informed him, lip between his teeth, that he wouldn’t be able to attend ( _we’ve been dying to go to this place, Jonginnie, it’s a miracle someone pulled out of their slot, I’ll come to the next show, I promise_ ), Jongin hadn’t made a fuss. But Kyungsoo could tell by the set of his mouth and the way the kid rubbed the back of his neck that he was upset. Kyungsoo had promised for that, too, after all.

Kyungsoo keeps talking as he keys in his reply. “You guys got together two weeks after me and So-hyun did. That was three quarters of a _year_ ago, Jongin.” Three-quarters of a year Kyungsoo’s spent with the busiest, most beautiful pre-med student on campus, who thinks, to his utter disbelief, that Jongin doesn’t like her. He _will_ get to the bottom of this. “She’s been asking me for ages why we never double—and frankly, I don’t know what to tell her.” He hits send on the message, then sends Jongin a pointed look. “So, what do I tell her?”

_Can’t you study tomorrow, baby?_

“Is that So-hyun?” Jongin’s got a tiny white sesame seed pasted to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Kyungsoo brushes it off. Jongin blinks in surprise. “Don’t change the subject.”

Jongin scratches over the same spot with his thumbnail. Kyungsoo’s command goes ignored. “Is she coming to meet you for lunch?”

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “No, she’s not. Answer my question.” His phone beeps again.

_i started group study today_

_but the coverage of the test is sooooo difficult_

_feels like i’m going insane @_@_

_i think i need to buckle down_

_& power through it on my own_

_it’s in 2 days oppa :( :( :(_  

_But the reservation………… :(_

_huhuhu i know T__T_

_gahhhhhhhh TTT___TTT_

_will you be really mad if we don’t go?_

“Tell her whatever you want,” Jongin replies in no particular tone of voice. When Kyungsoo cuts his eyes at him, miffed with him and So-hyun both, he catches Jongin looking at his phone. 

Kyungsoo draws it up to his chest defensively. “Stop spying on my texts to my girlfriend.”

“Stop asking weird questions about _my_ girlfriend,” Jongin retorts. His chopsticks stab softly into scallion-dotted noodles. “So annoying.”

Kyungsoo side-eyes him, noting the shift from neutral to sullen as he responds to So-hyun’s question.

_No, I won’t be really mad :)_

(The real answer is _Yes, I will, So-hyunnie, we’ve been waiting for ages_ —but he’s too whipped to say that.)

_I’ll just hang with Jongin_

_He’s got a show tonight_

“Listen, Bad Attitude.” Kyungsoo tilts his head. “If you’re done being a brat, I’ve got some good news for you.”

Jongin pouts at him through a mouthful of ramen. “What?”

_thanks for understanding, oppa <3_

_have fun with jongin-ssi_

_i love you_

“I’m coming to your show tonight, after all.” And Kyungsoo smiles, bracing for a deluge of excitement, knowing how much that should please Jongin, and pleased _himself_ by So-hyun’s affection, lost dinner reservation be damned.

_Love you too_

Jongin’s reception is lukewarm at best. He looks…thoughtful, his brows rising simultaneously. “What happened to your date?” 

Kyungsoo’s smile wanes. “So-hyun has to study.”

Jongin doesn’t stop chewing. The expression on his face morphs into sympathy. “Pre-med must be a bitch.”

“It is.” Kyungsoo purses his lips. “You don’t seem very enthused about my attendance.”

Jongin eyes get swallowed up in a face-crinkling grin. “I’m enthused, hyung. Glad you can make it.”

Kyungsoo glares at him. He feels strangely let down. “Any other hyungs coming to watch you hip-thrust on stage?”

“A couple,” Jongin replies. “Joonmyun-hyung, Chanyeol-hyung, Baekhyun-hyung… Minseok-hyung and Jongdae-hyung from my department, too. You met them, I think. Jinki-hyung and Minho-hyung, since Taemin told them about it. Sehun…oh wait, he’s not a hyung. Um, Siwon-sunbae said he could come since he’s on break from military service—”

“I get it,” Kyungsoo says flatly. “The world is coming.”

(He’d thought the invite to Jongin’s show was less inclusive. A Kyungsoo exclusive.)

“I think that’s a good thing?”

“It is.” Kyungsoo sighs, feeling dramatic but also unsettled. “How about Soojung?”

“She’s coming,” Jongin tells him, sipping carefully from his cup of cold tea.

“The three of us are going to go get drinks after the show. No excuses. Today she learns about your Harry Potter fic obsession.”

Jongin laughs politely. “Sorry, hyung, we sort of have plans.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “Now you’re not even being subtle about it.” He holds his hands out. “What’s the problem? Be straight with me. You haven’t been this evasive since we were in high school and I grilled you about kissing me in your sleep that one time.”

Jongin balks at that, all mouth and no teeth. “I told you, that was an _accident._ ”

Were he not a man on a mission, Kyungsoo would comment on how cute Jongin looks right now, his face reddening by the second and soft mouth still ajar. “You know what’s not an accident, kid? The way you’ve _deliberately_ —” he punctuates the word with owlish eyes, “kept me and your _other_ significant other apart." 

Jongin is doing that thing where he tries to bury his face in his food. “What does So-hyun think about you saying dumb shit like that?”

“So-hyun thinks you don’t approve of her, which is why you keep avoiding us.” Kyungsoo pincers a mushroom between his chopsticks in a calculated attempt to seem casual. “She says when it’s clear it’s just going to be you and me hanging out, like today, there’s no problem.” He hesitates, not quite sure how to phrase this next part, which is delicate. “But when she’s invited—to whatever, dinner or drinks or a movie—you sort of…shut the idea down before we even have time to set a date.”

“It’s not that at all.” Jongin’s face is still parallel to his bowl, so Kyungsoo only has clear visibility of his forehead. No way to gauge his expression. “It’s ‘cause you always bring it up last minute, and I have no time to, like...” Jongin waves the word out with a loose hand. “Prepare.”

“Which is why I told her she was being paranoid,” Kyungsoo goes on, “and that it was just you being territorial over Soojung.” He reaches across the table to smack Jongin’s wrist with the backs of his fingers. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve always been sort of possessive over your people. Even me.”

“Mmm.” Jongin lifts his eyes from his bowl, looking distracted. “Does So-hyun really think I don’t like her?”

There’s a film of sweat on his forehead, the aftermath of his ramen steam bath. Kyungsoo smears it away with his knuckle. “Kind of.”

“Tell her that’s not true.”

“Already did.”

“Tell her,” Jongin says, eyes racing, somewhat, “that it’s actually because Soojung doesn’t like _you._ ”

Kyungsoo curls his lip. “What did you say, punk?”

There is a glint in Jongin’s eye that wasn’t there a second ago. “She says I should keep better company—” He dodges the napkin Kyungsoo launches at him with the grace of a gazelle. “Less emo, I think, were her instructions.”

Kyungsoo balls up the rest of the napkins and launches them at the cackling brat across the table, only stopping when the ahjumma who runs the joint yells at them to stop messing around.

At the end of the meal, when Jongin pulls out his wallet and heads to the cashier (it’s his treat, today), Kyungsoo gets another message from So-hyun.

_oppa_

_i was thinking it over…_

_dinner shouldn’t take up too much study time_

_at least not for one night_

_besides, the food will be worth it_

_right??? :D_

_so let’s push through with the plan tonight~_

_i’ll wear the dress you got me for my birthday <3_

Kyungsoo should be happy about this, he really should. What awaits him is Michelin-starred Spanish fare, a bottle of red Seungsoo-hyung recommended and spotted him the cash for, and best of all, So-hyun in a pale blue silk thing he’d successfully picked out himself.

It’s just that…Jongin’s finally showing excitement about him coming to the show tonight. Before he went to pay, they’d just wrapped up a discussion about the narrative thread behind tonight’s twelve dance sequences. Jongin pinpointed the four spots when Kyungsoo’s allowed to go to the restroom, because he’ll miss Jongin’s dancing if he goes anytime else. He’d looked happy and energized and proud of himself, and Kyungsoo had been glad to have played a part in at least one of those emotions. He doesn’t want a dent put in any of them on account of his girlfriend being a little fickle and (more problematic) _his_ being a flake.

“Hyung?” Jongin’s standing next to him again, one hand in his pocket as the other drums fingers against the table. “You ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kyungsoo replies, quickly keying in a message before stuffing his phone into his pocket.

_Great see you later babe_

“So-hyun again?” Jongin asks pleasantly as Kyungsoo pushes back his chair to stand up.

“Yeah.” Kyungsoo grabs his jacket and pushes an arm into it. “About that…” He pushes in the other arm, eyes monitoring Jongin’s face. “Our dinner’s back on tonight.”

The only thing that changes in Jongin’s expression is his smile, which stretches from small to wide. “She doesn’t have to study anymore?”

“She, uh, yeah, she decided to take a break.” Kyungsoo rubs his lips together uneasily. He doesn’t know why Jongin is smiling so hard. “Sorry, kid. I really _did_ want to see you dance. I didn’t think she’d change her mind so quickly.”

Jongin nods, and it’s all kindliness and understanding. His teeth are white and straight. “It’s fine, hyung.”

Kyungsoo places a hand on his forearm. “I mean it, no bullshit. I’m a bit disappointed now, since you got me all juiced up about the show.” That’s not a lie. “I really did plan on going, Jongin.”

Jongin chuckles, putting his hand over Kyungsoo’s and squeezing briefly. “You always do, hyung.” It’s a familiar refrain, because he and Kyungsoo have had this exact same conversation before, more than once, and that’s probably what has Jongin smiling, Kyungsoo thinks: the fact that their lives, even when diverging, seem to be on an infinite loop.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Kyungsoo insists, trying to get a better explanation across and flipping his hand over for more contact. “Listen, kid—”

“Don’t feel like it,” Jongin replies, the corners of his smile fracturing in the first (and only) sign of displeasure he’s shown thus far. He smacks Kyungsoo’s palm in a joyless low-five, keeping his eyes under his bangs as he makes for the door. “Buy me ice cream, hyung, before you go.”

 

 

_kyungsoo-hyung_

_just getting to your message now_

_sorry about that, i wasnt ignoring it_

_its been crazy at the studio these last few days_

_taemin got sick right after I got back_

_but hes better now_

_we both are_

_thanks for checking on me_

_my brother sure tells you a lot_

_hetold me about your trip too_

_have a safe flight_

_unless you landed already_

_in which case_

_viva italia_

_-jongin_

_ps. why are we signing off on texts now?_

_miss u too_

 

  

This is the most idyllic weather Kyungsoo has experienced since he planted his feet on Italian soil. Bright blue sky and so much warmth, with a robust breeze to cool the skin and not enough rain to dampen the spirit. It’s a godsend compared to the surprise storm situation that had swept through July, leaving it humid and soggy. Kyungsoo had to rearrange a ton of his supplier meetings to accommodate this freak climate change. (Even the concierge at his hotel had been concerned by the uncharacteristic wet.)

Now, three days into August and one day back from an Umbrian wine hunt, Kyungsoo is finally ready for a break. On his tiny wrought iron table out on the terrace of his hotel room, he’s got his breakfast assembled in full Instagrammable glory. Not that Kyungsoo knows anything about Instagram—that’s just how Jongin describes it when Kyungsoo sends him photos of his daily meals. Today it’s some soft-boiled eggs and veal sausage, a gorgeous tiger-striped panini oozing with mozzarella, and a stainless steel espresso maker with a glass espresso cup next to it. 

Kyungsoo picks up his phone.

_Jongin_

_In Florence now_

_Look what I’m eating_

There’s a seven-hour time difference between them, which means it’s one in the morning in Seoul. Jongin’s usually up at this time, studying Parris Goebbel and Mia Michaels choreo on YouTube or watching one of his obscure French films.

The three dots dancing across a white screen prove Kyungsoo right. He pours himself an espresso, brewed dark and profoundly fragrant, giving it a minute to cool in his al fresco setup before taking a sip.

_T____T_

_looks good hyung_

_for dinner i had chicken_

_and a really sour orange_

_it made me cry a little_

Kyungsoo donkey-laughs, clamping his hand over his mouth a split-second later. It’s already eight in the morning, but he’s still not sure what constitutes a godly hour in Italy.

_You’re always crying_

_So that is hardly news_

_this is true ^^_

_how was your weekend_

_under the tuscan sun_

Kyungsoo munches on a sausage while he types. 

_You mean Umbrian sun_

_It was great, but intense_

_Found too much good stuff_

_So I had all the bottles shipped straight to Seoul_

_so fancy_

_So heavy X_X_

_Are you home?_

_no_

_across the street_

_at the 24hr starbucks_

_i cant sleep_

_so i figured i would have a latte_

_and just stay up_

_That’s more milk than coffee, Jongin_

_dont be snobbish hyung_

_Sorry :)_

_glad you have better wifi now_

_A+ WiFi at this hotel_

_The one in Umbria had an old school LAN cable_

_Imagine trying to stuff a LEGO into a USB port_

_id feel sorry for both :C_

Kyungsoo catches himself smiling as he reaches for his espresso. He takes another sip, swallows it carefully, then levels the corners of his mouth so he doesn’t look like such a dolt. Not that anybody can see him, save for the pigeons flying over the jade river his room overlooks, but _still_. It’s a timely thing, anyway, this more serious look, since he’s got something more serious to ask. 

_How’s it going with that guy you met?_

Two weeks prior, when Kyungsoo was still in Rome, handpicking wheels of pecorino and parmigiano-reggiano, Jongin told him he’d started seeing somebody. He hadn’t offered much in terms of details, and Kyungsoo had been too afraid to ask for more than what he’d been given. They’d been messaging each other every day since Kyungsoo left Seoul, just like old times, like Jongin hadn’t dropped him, cold turkey, and put a universe’s space between them. It wasn’t great feeling like a bad habit someone needed to quit for their own good. Kyungsoo had known he was lucky as it was, that Jongin decided to come back into his life with so little prodding. Scratch that—it was the other way around. Jongin had let Kyungsoo come back into _his_ , and that’s why Kyungsoo hadn’t pushed.

Today, though, he will. Just a tiny bit, because that’s what one does for dongsaengs they’ve always looked out for.

_He treating you okay?_

The gap between one minute and the next never feels quite as long as when Kyungsoo is waiting for Jongin to reply to him.

_why do you think its a guy hyung_

Kyungsoo’s face stiffens, and a hum stalls in his throat. It’s true, Jongin hadn’t mentioned whether this person he’d started seeing was a man or a woman. Kyungsoo had simply guessed it was the latter since…well, in his mind, that would be the most direct way for Jongin to get over him.

The rationale sounds arrogant, even when unspoken. Kyungsoo doesn’t plan on saying it out loud—ever.

_Sorry, just assumed_

_So it’s not a guy?_

_nope_

He’d assumed wrong, apparently. It’s a bad habit he’s honed ever since Jongin got back from the army, looking like the same kid Kyungsoo grew up with, but with his topography all changed inside. Kyungsoo used to know him like he knew his old neighborhood, and now he finds himself in need of a map that doesn’t exist.

_Oh_

_Okay_

_How’s that going?_

_fine_

_its not serious_

_have you watched the corgi videos i sent you_

Jongin’s trying to change the subject already. It doesn’t bode well for this line of questioning. Kyungsoo’s chair groans underneath him as he leans back into it, studying his phone screen. He wonders if he can push a little more, or if another attempt would be shut down just as fast. 

_Not yet_

_They wouldn’t load in Umbria_

_So what does not serious mean?_

His breakfast is getting cold, with the coastal breeze in full swing, but Kyungsoo has all but forgotten it. Unease is a chain slinking over his ribs, rattling metal against the cage that protects his most vital organ. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, like he’s a stone’s throw away from jealousy. Because Kyungsoo’s not jealous—that would be silly of him. He’s protective _,_ is what. That’s got a different scent and flavor to it altogether, as different as a merlot is from a cabernet.

_not serious_

_means casual_

_watch the dogs hyung_

Kyungsoo exhales through his nose, mouth pulling in all directions. He scrolls back through their chat obediently, finds the video link, and loads it in a new tab.

_Buffering as we speak_

_Sorry I don’t speak millennial_

_Casual means…?_

He’s not that old; he knows very well what it means. And he’s pushing it, the way he’s pushing it—Kyungsoo recognizes this. He still enjoys a filmy bubble of protection by virtue of Jongin avoiding The Issue, those feelings he’s not supposed to have anymore, and doesn’t _seem_ to have anymore, if their guileless conversations hold up as proof in court. But bubbles have no shelf life, and Kyungsoo is aware that his will burst, sooner or later, by either his hand or Jongin’s.

What he’s giving it now is a light, exploratory tap; the kind of interference that would move a bubble through the air without breaking its seal. He needs this bubble, but he needs clarity more—because he’s curious, and uncomfortable, and a little left behind. He hates Jongin keeping secrets from him. No, that’s not quite it. What he hates is the idea of Jongin having someone he _keeps secret_ , when up until recently that spot used to be Kyungsoo’s.

In the tightest chamber of his mind, where his oldest, most precious memories have been tucked away, a secret of Kyungsoo’s own glimmers on a dusty shelf. Just the glimpse of it makes his heart speed up, like he’s seen a ghost, and he shuts the door on it, fast.

 _Just kidding,_ Kyungsoo types in a hurry, spurred by the fear of not knowing something he should. _Us old guys call it getting-to-know-you._ But Jongin beats him to the punch before he can press send.

_its a hookup_

_got it old man?_  

Jongin’s tone is light and airy—he’d even used Kyungsoo’s college nickname to rib him—but something deep, deep, deep in Kyungsoo’s gut churns.

Is this…jealousy? It can’t be…and yet it feels so much like it. Protectiveness has a smoother finish to it; not quite sweet, but never abrasive. Whatever is happening in Kyungsoo’s gut is burning its way up his system, peppery in his throat, like a wine with too much tannin in it. It just tastes wrong, and Kyungsoo doesn’t feel right. 

_Got it_

_Sorry if that felt invasive_

_I didn’t mean to pry_

There’s no reason for Kyungsoo to be jealous, since he handed back Jongin’s open heart and sutured it closed with a half-assed dismissal. Why would he be jealous, when he has no claim over this man-child, who looks at him the way a flower looks at the sun, and whose gaze Kyungsoo only returns when he feels it turning away from him?

_you know hyung_

_thats the 4th time youve said sorry to me today :)_

Kyungsoo answers on impulse.

_I have a lot to be sorry for_

It’s too candid, too close to the edge. Kyungsoo can see the surface of his bubble wavering, iridescent and gossamer, about to split apart even after weeks of careful maintenance. He braces for a rupture.

_dont be dramatic_

_ill talk to you tomorrow_

_heading back to my place now_

_and i dont plan on getting run over~_

The seal holds.

Kyungsoo blows out the breath he’d been holding without even knowing it. His stomach is roiling with acid, his mind jarred by the anticlimax. The only thing that stands out, with crystalline clarity, is how easily Jongin had sidestepped the trap he set.

 _Joonmyun was right about you,_ Kyungsoo chides himself, the heat of shame blanketing his chest. _Selfish fucking asshole._ He shuts his eyes, shakes his head, backs away from the room with the secret shelf and shiny truths.

This time, when he replies, he sticks to the script.

_Be safe, Jongin_

_Sleep well_

_Have a great day tomorrow_

Jongin does, too.

_night hyung_

_watch the corgis_

_they remind me of us when we were kids_

After that, Kyungsoo puts his phone away. He pours himself another strong coffee and drinks it in alongside the view. The Arno River is dazzling in the Florentine light. It’s this same light that had stirred Botticelli to paint his flame-haired women, all soft-bellied and the color of milk.

The last thought Kyungsoo permits before he shuts off thinking altogether is how Jongin would look in this light, with that golden skin of his, and if he would be happy to be with Kyungsoo on holiday, or thinking about someone else back home.

 

 

Jung Soojung is the one who breaks things off, after four years of campus coupledom. Jongin is not surprised, but nonetheless devastated by it. 

Kyungsoo is three years out of school, making a modest living at his brother’s food startup, so he takes Jongin out for soju and samgyeopsal. It starts a tradition that they carry well into the future: hard liquor and grilled pork belly every time Jongin gets his heart broken.

This first time, it only takes three shots on an empty stomach to get Jongin wasted. This leaves Kyungsoo with four orders of fatty pork to polish off on his own, and one noodle-bodied, wet-faced kid to take care of.

“I thought I taught you how to drink when you were seventeen.” Kyungsoo feeds Jongin the _gui_ with his own chopsticks to chase the soju in his bloodstream. “How can you be this weak at twenty-two?”

“I’m sad, hyung,” Jongin mumbles around the pork.

“I know,” Kyungsoo says sympathetically.

“Soojung broke up with me.”

“I know, kid.”

“She really went through with it, hyung.” Jongin’s even tone belies the fresh tear tracks on his cheeks. “Why’d she do that?”

“You said she’d been wanting more,” Kyungsoo reminds him. “You said you knew exactly what ‘more’ meant, and it was something you couldn’t give to her.” He offers Jongin another piece of meat. When he refuses, biting his lip, Kyungsoo pops it into his own mouth. “What was more?”

“She wanted to get married.” Jongin rests his forehead against his palms. “She didn’t mean _now,_ obviously, because we’re too young—we just graduated. But someday, she said she wanted to marry me.”

Kyungsoo’s head tilts slightly to the right. “And?”

Jongin shrugs, offering no immediate reply, even as his shoulders ease back down.

“Are you telling me you _don’t_ want to marry her?” Kyungsoo asks, perplexed. “But you love her.”

“I do,” Jongin says, lifting his face. “I just can’t marry her.”

“ _What?_ ” This comes as a complete shock. Jongin has sent Soojung flowers once a month the whole time they were together, helped her find an apartment for her parents when they moved back to Seoul from San Francisco, and once let an understudy take his spot in a musical so he could drive her to the hospital when she broke her wrist. From what little Kyungsoo has seen of it (because he never did manage to get Jongin to open up about it), their entire relationship has been something of a marriage already. 

“Why can’t you marry her?” Kyungsoo prods him, tilting his head even further. “What’s wrong with Soojung?”

“Nothing.” Jongin’s voice is so quiet. “Absolutely nothing. She’s perfect.” His eyes are fixed on an indiscernible spot on the table, and his thumbnail is scraping a short line into the wood. “I don’t think I can get married to anyone, hyung.”

Kyungsoo widens his eyes at him. “What are you talking about?” The grill lets out a loud hiss, and Kyungsoo quickly turns the meat over with his tongs so it doesn’t burn. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not…sure…how to explain.” Jongin’s gaze shifts from dull to keen and back again, like he’s seeking the last alert brain cell in his drunken haze. He’s already starting to slur. “I feel like marriage should be sacred, you know? Saved for that one person who’s supposed to be your…your other half, hyung. Supposed to take you from a hundred percent to two hundred percent. A two hundred percent happy person.” The damp, nasal chuckle that follows is steeped in sadness. “I know it’s corny, hyung. All this soulmate bullshit. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m talking about this with…with you. But I believe in it, after all. I do.” Jongin trails off here, but Kyungsoo catches the last thing he mumbles under his breath. “That you should marry the one your soul wants, if you can.”

The ambient noise of sizzling meat and clinking glass in this small family restaurant has swallowed every other word. Kyungsoo still gets the message, though (at least he thinks he does).

“I’m with you,” he tells Jongin, taking care not to sound sharp. They never talk like this, ever, and it makes him kind of uncomfortable. “I just thought you saw Soojung as soulmate material.”

“Hyung.” Jongin’s voice is a notch above an undertone. “This whole time that you’ve been with So-hyun, have you…” The soft hitch in his breathing is a nail catching on wool. “Have you only loved her?”

The direction this conversation is taking makes Kyungsoo’s heart sink into his stomach. It’s partly because he and So-hyun have been fighting like crazy recently—her inability to prioritize him, at least once a while, over med school, finally taking its toll. But it’s mostly because the thought of Jongin doing something out of character worries him, the way Jongin’s refusal to let Kyungsoo and Soojung exist within the same sphere of his personal Venn diagram had worried him, years ago. It makes Kyungsoo feel like Jongin has cordoned a part of himself off on purpose, so Kyungsoo (and Kyungsoo _specifically_ ) can’t get to it.

“You have, haven’t you, hyung,” Jongin says, with the inflection of a question and the resignation of already knowing the answer _._ “There’s no one else for you but her.”

“Of course.” Kyungsoo drops his eyes. “I don’t even know why you’re asking.” The hand he’s using to hold the tongs tightens around them. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ve been cheating on your girlfriend, Jongin?”

Another sad, wet chuckle, with no smile to match. “This is the part where I tell you that I’ve _never_ ,” Jongin hiccups, “ _ever,_ cheated on my girlfriend.”

Kyungsoo can’t keep up. “Then why did you just ask me that question?” 

“Here’s another,” Jongin mutters, instead of answering him directly. “Can you love two people at the same time?”

Kyungsoo turns down the heat of the grill and places the tongs back on the table. “No, you can’t,” he says, piqued and losing patience. “Only one of those people is getting your love. The other one’s just getting a shadow. That’s not real love—that’s a photocopy.” He exhales deliberately, pursing his lips, trying to tamp down an overwhelming wave of disappointment. It’s an ugly feeling spiked with betrayal, which both surprises and confuses him. “Are you _sure_ there’s nothing you need to tell me?” 

The kid is staring straight at him now—eyes glazed, mouth misshapen, but staring hard, nonetheless.

“And So-hyun has your love, right?” Jongin asks in a small voice. “She’s never even seen its shadow.”

Kyungsoo rubs a hand from his hairline to his nape. “Jongin, come on.” His hair flops back over his forehead. “You’re talking crazy now. What does So-hyun have to do with anything?”

“I’m jealous of what she has,” Jongin says, the last syllables of his words bleeding into one another. “And I’m jealous of what _you_ have.” His eyes glint with new tears. They catch in his lashes, webbing them together. “I’m jealous of her, and the two of you together, and your non-photocopy happiness that I’ll never have for myself.”

That cuts at Kyungsoo unexpectedly, enough to make him wince. He shakes his head. “That’s not true. Why do you say that?” He piles the cooked meat into an empty dish. The alternative would be to sit in silence and parse through emotions he can’t interpret. “Why did you let Soojung break up with you? She loves you so much—”

“Because Soojung is not my soulmate,” is Jongin’s abrupt, yet plaintive, reply. “I’ve known that for a while.”

The yearning look in his eyes makes Kyungsoo’s skin prickle. Or maybe it’s the brief touch he leaves on the back of Kyungsoo’s hand, Jongin’s own hand shaking from his liquored-up state, before he stumbles off to the men’s room to scrub his face sober.

Long after that night, when Jongin’s heart has scarred over, nice and smooth, and he starts seeing other people—people Kyungsoo knows by name but never, ever meets—Kyungsoo can’t have samgyeopsal without remembering that look, that fleeting touch, and wondering what they both meant.

  

 

He and So-hyun break up the following winter, after five years together.

Instead of taking Kyungsoo out, Jongin comes over to his apartment and asks Kyungsoo to cook them both a meal. “Something you’ve never cooked before,” that sweet brat says with shining eyes, as Kyungsoo laughs at him, feeling better already. “That way, you won’t think of who you used to eat with.”

(That’s another tradition they have—Jongin’s favorite, he confesses to Kyungsoo later, once they’ve established a rhythm. Kyungsoo starts going over to Jongin’s unannounced, because the delight on Jongin’s face zings through him like a vitamin, and the hug Jongin gives him at the door erases days, sometimes weeks, of strange, strange loneliness. Over years of practice, it evolves into something they do for no reason, no reason at all—except maybe they miss each other, and just don’t want to admit it.)


	3. Chapter 3

After a stop in Bologna for olive oil and tortellini, and another in San Marino, where he buys a case of truffle liqueur, Kyungsoo heads back to Rome for his last night in Italy.

His twelve-hour direct flight back to Seoul departs from Fiumicino Airport in the morning, and he casually emails Jongin a copy of his itinerary. He doesn’t ask Jongin to pick him up; just forwards the online booking confirmation with an _FYI_ and a _see you soon, Jonginnie_. He knows Jongin has classes to teach at the studio the day he arrives—but even so, he hopes to see a familiar puppy face at Incheon International.

Once all his bags are packed and shipments have been arranged for his epicurean haul, Kyungsoo decides to do a little sightseeing. He’s got a couple hours before he’s arranged to meet an old sunbae for dinner, their schedules finally squaring up while he’s in the city. Kim Minseok had been Jongin’s friend first, having shared the same major at SNU. After college, he and Kyungsoo had gotten closer, crossing paths at restaurant openings and private wine tastings. Minseok lives in Rome now and works as a fashion photographer. He and Jongin haven’t spoken for years. 

_Minseok-hyung_

_Still on for dinner in Trastevere?_

Kyungsoo doesn’t bother waiting for a reply before pocketing his phone and heading out of his hotel. He knows the answer to that is yes, Minseok being one of those upstanding hyungs who always follows through with what he’s promised. _You should be more like him,_ Jongin had teased Kyungsoo once, when he and Minseok were still as thick as thieves, and Kyungsoo and So-hyun were still going strong. Kyungsoo had bitten his tongue and offered up a rueful smile, because there was no defending himself from the subtext of that joke.

(He can’t decide if the memory is a good one or a bad one.)

Kyungsoo spends his afternoon among the ruins. He enters the travertine arcades of the Colosseo, marching up massive stone steps to see the hypogeum below and the azure sky through the arches above. He winds his way through the Foro Romano, dust gathering over his shoes as he ambles along rocky roads, craning up to see the last of the columns. When he gets to Palatine Hill, where the crumbling majesty of ancient Rome stretches out beneath him, the vista takes his breath away. Here, with the sun setting fast in the distance, Kyungsoo finally remembers to take some photos. He sends the best one to Jongin, followed by a selfie of himself with his sunglasses hanging off his nose.

_Last day_

His thumb falters for the briefest of moments before he dispatches the second part of that message.

_Miss you_

It just feels right. Kyungsoo nibbles on the corner of his bottom lip, watching the wine-stained sun sink further into its bed of clouds. Thank God Jongin’s been answering his messages every day. By the time Kyungsoo gets back to Seoul, it’ll have been three months since they last met. A whole _quarter_ has come and gone since that terrible day at the café, and so much has changed already.

It’s around noon in Seoul right now. Jongin is probably out to lunch with Taemin, sticky and famished following the last of their morning classes. Kyungsoo wonders if he’ll show Taemin what he’s sent, or if it’s not significant enough to be fodder for discussion, now that Jongin is doing casual things with someone new. The thought of that complete stranger, whom Kyungsoo still knows nothing about, save for the fact that Jongin is hooking up with them, fills him with discontent.

His phone pings. It’s Minseok, to Kyungsoo’s mild disappointment, giving him directions to the restaurant and asking to meet in half an hour or so. 

Kyungsoo replies in the affirmative. He snaps one last shot of the sunset and sends that to Jongin, too, before beginning his descent. His phone is clutched in his hand the whole way down. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the base of the hill, his shoes coated in dust from the way he’s been dragging his feet. He’s been deliberating on something, vacillating between doing it and not doing it for the past week, holding it hostage in his mind like light caught in a prism. 

That something is a message he needs to send, and the person he needs to send it to is Shin-hye. The thought of being on a plane for twelve hours and not having settled this beforehand serves as his last little push.

_Hi noona_

_It’s been a while_

_I’m flying home tomorrow_

_Can I see you sometime this week?_

It’s a scenic, forty-minute stroll from the Roman Forum to this bistro across the river. The evening is both warm and cool, with heat still coming off the cobblestones and a sea wind blowing in from the west. Kyungsoo tramps along comfortably, hands in his pockets as he crosses Ponte Palatino, admiring the fairytale beauty of Tiber Island in the moonlight. He captures the scene from the bridge with his phone, but keeps the photo to himself this time. Jongin hasn’t replied to any of his messages yet.

When he gets to the restaurant, Minseok’s already there, thumbing through the wine list at a corner table. He’s dressed in a light suit, hair slick, no tie. He waves Kyungsoo over as soon as he sees him, pink gums flashing in a wide smile.

“There you are, Soo-yah,” Minseok welcomes him. He still looks so young, nowhere near thirty-two. More like a Korean student cosplaying as an Italian playboy.

“Hey, hyung.” Kyungsoo lets himself be hugged, embarrassed by his crumpled polo and dirty kicks. “You didn’t tell me to dress up.”

“You didn’t have to. I came from work.” Minseok claps him on the cheek as they take their seats. “Besides,” he squares his hands in front of him, like he’s framing a photograph, “you look very Armie Hammer in _Call Me By Your Name._ ”

“Tall, dark, and handsome?” Kyungsoo smiles at him.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘sloppy brooding tourist.’” Minseok grins out of the side of his mouth. “You and I will never be tall in gladiator country, Soo. Thank God we’re K-pop cute.”

“I’m cuter,” Kyungsoo says, feeling light and at ease.

“And I’m sexier,” Minseok counters, undoing the button of his suit jacket. “Ask Jongin. I’m sure he’ll back me up.”

Kyungsoo instinctively rubs the outline of his phone over his pocket. Still no response from Jongin. None from Shin-hye, either. “Have you spoken to Jongin recently?”

“I have, actually.” Minseok beckons a waiter over. “A few days ago. He gave me a call out of the blue.”

He gets a bottle of shiraz and a cheese platter to start with, then suggests they order family-style so Kyungsoo can taste all the best dishes. Bruschetta, bagna càuda, risotto, osso bucco. Kyungsoo agrees to everything, because this is Minseok’s territory—but also because he wants to get back to where their conversation left off.

“What did you guys talk about?” he asks as soon as the waiter leaves. (Sometimes, he can be as possessive as Jongin is.)

“Well, I told him I was seeing you today.” Minseok pours out the wine. “And he told me he was seeing somebody.” The scent of it clings to Kyungsoo’s nostrils, spicy and sharp. “Did you know that?”

Kyungsoo takes a narrow sip. “I did.”

“He told me that, too.” Minseok is studying him openly, still pleasant in the face, but not quite smiling. “Just wanted to see your reaction.”

“Hyung?”

“He also told me he gave up his big secret.” Minseok toys with the stem of his beveled wine glass. “Finally, after all these years. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Kyungsoo’s nod is slow, his smile taut. “He came out to me.”

The look on Minseok’s face is penetrating. “Yeah…but I was talking about him being in love with you.”

Kyungsoo deflates at that instantly. _Another one,_ is the thought that streaks across his mind. Another person who knew about Jongin’s feelings before he did. Minseok had been one of Jongin’s nicest sunbaes in college, someone who bought him food and lent him his notes and came to his dance shows, even after Minseok had graduated. But he was hardly a Joonmyun or a Sehun, not even a Taemin—at least, not by Kyungsoo’s estimation. If Kyungsoo and the rest of the gang placed in Jongin’s core circle, Minseok would place in the next concentric one outside of that. Maybe even the next, _next_ circle, where one assigns hyungs they are fond of but don’t know well enough to go on vacation with. It doesn’t make sense for Minseok to be privy to Jongin’s deepest, darkest secret, when half his nucleus was not.

“You,” Kyungsoo licks the backs of his teeth, “you knew about that, hyung?”

Minseok’s not-quite-smile is now a not-quite-anything. “When we broke up,” he says, with ruthless eye contact, “I made Jongin admit it to me.”

Kyungsoo stares back at him vacuously. A low, slow pound begins in his ears. The syntax of that sentence doesn’t quite make sense. Minseok had almost made it sound as if…as if…

Minseok takes a little of his wine. He licks the excess off his lips. Liquid courage. “You know how close we were in college.” He speaks gently, the way Joonmyun used to speak when Kyungsoo couldn’t wrap his mind around his trigonometry lesson, even after countless tries at the same equation. “I think it was obvious that I cared about him.”

Kyungsoo can feel blood pulsing at his temples, his wrists, on either side of his throat. “So what you’re saying is...” His words are obscured by stiff fingers over stiffer lips. “What are you _saying_ , hyung?”

Minseok’s eyes bore into his. “We went out.” His guarded expression sheers out at the edges, shifting to regret. “Then…we stopped. Jongin didn’t want you to know.”

The blood is in Kyungsoo’s face now, throbbing under his skin. He should be used to this: discovering traces of things Jongin didn’t want him knowing about, decade-old footprints with dirt kicked over them. These past few months, it feels like he’s been dancing to the beat of a broken record, and his feet have memorized exactly where the song skips and stalls before it begins again. Step here, step there, say this, say that, feel this way, not that way. It’s not you, it’s them.

(It sure feels like it’s him though—the only sucker left dancing alone, after everyone’s left the room.)

“Of course he didn’t,” Kyungsoo says bitterly, swirling the wine in his glass. He doesn’t drink it. “He didn’t want me to know him at all." 

He should be used to it by now.

It should hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

The atmosphere between them grows thick with strain. When the waiter returns, light on his feet and brandishing a tray of appetizers, it almost stops him in his tracks. Minseok smooths things over, demurring at the waiter’s murmured apologies and even helping him make space for the breadbasket. They have a short exchange in Italian, which Kyungsoo barely hears, because he’s busy processing the reality that Minseok used to be in love with Jongin, and Jongin had felt the same, and kept that from him.

 _I’ve had men in my life, hyung. Men in my bed._ The words flit through Kyungsoo head, bat-like. His stomach drips with sick.

They sit in silence, draining their glasses, letting the low hum of chatter from the other tables fill the void between them. When Kyungsoo finishes his wine, his eyes trained resolutely on his knees, Minseok pours him a second glass.

“Say something,” Minseok prods him. His timbre is halfway between chiding and conciliatory. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not,” Kyungsoo replies, even though he is. Angry, and unhappy, and so, so heavy. His whole body feels weighed down, like there are rocks buried deep in his pockets and tied to the ends of his bones with string to make sure he sinks to the lowest depth possible.

“You _are_ ,” Minseok says, arching an eyebrow, “and you should really think about why.” He doesn’t sound so conciliatory anymore, and his face has taken on a sterner look. “Think long and hard, Soo, about why you react this way every time someone shows the slightest bit of interest in Jongin that’s beyond what’s acceptable to you.”

Kyungsoo gets a flash of something half-forgotten: Minseok asking him once, at a college party, over Jack and Cokes, if he liked Jung Soojung, and Kyungsoo telling him, completely on impulse, that he didn’t. After, he’d wondered at himself and the abruptness of his candor, worrying what Jongin might say if he got wind of it, and why he’d said it in the first place.

“I’m protective over him,” is what Kyungsoo says now, by way of explanation.

“Is that what it is,” Minseok comments, with a dry bluntness that can only be attributed to sarcasm. “Protective.”

“What is it then?” Kyungsoo challenges him, in a last-ditch effort at denial. “Since you don’t seem to believe me.”

Minseok hesitates, spearing a bit of cheese but leaving it on the board upon second thought. “I don’t think you believe yourself, Soo. That’s the problem.” When he bites his lips in exasperation, they turn pink. “It doesn’t matter what I think—which I won’t say, because I respect you too much, and I don’t think you’re ready for it. It doesn’t even matter what I _know_ —which is that Jongin and I could never work, because he was always trying to work around you.” Minseok shrugs just as Kyungsoo’s stomach squeezes, right on cue. “The only thing that matters is what _you_ know, and what Jongin knows of _that_. That’s it.”

Kyungsoo shuts his eyes. Rubs them with the heel of each hand, until phosphenes burst in fuzzy clusters behind his lids. There, behind that dark curtain, aglow in the explosions of false light, is the glimmer of a secret on a dusty shelf.

Kyungsoo is so, so tired of hiding it.

“Tell me what you think, hyung.” His voice comes out rough, like he’s just woken up from a hundred years of sleep. “Go ahead.”

“Kyungsoo.” Minseok waves him off. “That’s not the point. I’m not going to force you—“

“You’re not forcing me, hyung.” Kyungsoo’s throat seizes up. “I just want to know what you think. What everyone thinks.” He swallows carefully, so his voice doesn’t quake. “I’ll tell you if it’s true. For real, this time.”

Minseok’s eyes soften, the exasperation in his face ebbing away and the hard set of his mouth losing its resolve. They both know the gravity of what Kyungsoo is asking him to do, and more importantly, the finality of it. This is the release of something into the wild. Completely irreversible.

The look Minseok levels at him carries so much in it—understanding, acceptance, even a little admiration. It overwhelms Kyungsoo to be at the receiving end of something so powerful, and compels him to look away.

He hears the delicate tinkling of dinnerware, the flapping of cloth napkins over crossed legs, the fizz of champagne being poured into glass, the clacking of heels on polished floors, the groaning of the bass in the blues music of the restaurant, the whisper of lips against cheeks and other lips, the murmur of sweet Italian nothings, and every single other sound symptomatic of _la dolce vita,_ until finally, he hears Minseok speak again.

“I think you’re in love with him.”

Kyungsoo’s gasp is practically soundless, but it echoes in his ears nonetheless. It’s the first sign that his body is going into defense mode: face freezing, stomach roiling, a million excuses filling his mouth. Only this time, instead of giving in, he clenches his teeth and bites his tongue and swallows them all down. 

“I think you’ve loved him for a long time,” Minseok says, “and you’ve fought it for a long time. I don’t know why.” His words wash over Kyungsoo like a baptism. They waterfall down his shelf, sweeping out all the bric-a-brac until everything’s been cleaned out, and only his truth remains. “But I could feel it, even back in college. You loved him more than anybody.” The truth glimmers, undying, like the travertine ruins in the warm Roman twilight. “And not like anybody else.”

Kyungsoo swears he hears a click and a swing; a door creaking open on its old hinges. He knows this is his release from that tiny little chamber in the corner of his mind, and the secret’s release, too.

“Oh, hyung,” he almost sobs, sudden relief caving his whole body in. Blood and bone and sinew are rushing, rushing, to the center of his heart, where only one person has been allowed entry. He knows that now. Only one, after all these years; only one, after all those people; only one, after all that wasted time. Today started out just like any other day, but it ends as the day Kyungsoo decides to say who.

“You don’t have to say anything, Soo,” Minseok assures him, like he’s just read Kyungsoo’s mind.

“But I do,” Kyungsoo says quickly, everything rushing, rushing, into place. His mind is full of _Jongin,_ and his mouth is full of _mine,_ and the door in his heart that had once been marked _no_ is now swinging wide open on the whisper of _yes._

He wants to say it.

“All right.” Minseok’s eyes are as kind as his voice.

Kyungsoo is glad it was him who caught him out, and called him on his bluff, and created this space for him to face himself, in the middle of Italian nowhere.

Minseok is worthy, because Minseok has been loved by Jongin.

Kyungsoo smiles at him, only a little jealous.

Soft and steady, Minseok smiles back. “Go on, then.”

 

  

With his hair in the prerequisite military buzz cut, Jongin looks just like himself—only younger, and more cheekboned.

He’d gotten it shaved with Sehun the day before, declining Kyungsoo’s offer to come along, since Joonmyun was coming already. _Too many hyungs for a haircut,_ is how Jongin had put it on text. _My brother’s here, anyway~_

Kyungsoo always thought he counted as one of the hyungs Jongin wanted there no matter what, and had felt a little left out.

But Jongin’s here now, in his apartment, slurping up Kyungsoo’s famous kimchi jjigae and telling Kyungsoo repeatedly how much he’s going to miss him. So Kyungsoo isn’t letting himself get too beat up about it. He’s going to miss Jongin, and this, more than Jongin will ever know.

The apartment smells like all the spices in the stew and the distinct heady perfume of soju. It was Jongin who suggested they drink, which was strange coming from someone with the tolerance of a prepubescent child. But Kyungsoo had humored him anyway, like always. There was no chance of him saying no, not tonight, when in the morning, Jongin will be gone for the better part of two years.

Kyungsoo wonders if he felt this uneasy back when Kyungsoo shipped off to the army.

Jongin picks up the green Chamisul bottle to pour himself a drink. “What are you thinking about, hyung?”

Kyungsoo shoos his hand away. “Let me do that for you.” He fills a shot glass neatly and hands Jongin the bottle to do the same for him. “I’m thinking about who I’m going to hang out with while you’re away.”

Jongin takes the shot in one go. He stifles a cough at the end, which Kyungsoo thinks is very cute. “No one,” Jongin says matter-of-factly. “You have no other friends, so you’ll just have to wait for me like a good hyung.” Kyungsoo sneers at that, and Jongin ignores him, chasing the liquor with a spoonful of jjigae. He’s turning pink already. “I’ll see you on my breaks though. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you alone for too long.”

Kyungsoo thinks that’s kind of cute, too, but he rolls his eyes to keep up appearances. “Who’s worried?” he scoffs, pressing a small smile into the lip of his shot glass. The soju slides down his throat, sweet and sharp, warming everything it touches. It’s raining outside, and it makes everything feel more cozy, with the water drumming against his windows and Jongin happily eating his food.

The odd thing is, Jongin is also happily asking for refills after every other spoonful. He doesn’t really like soju, or any kind of alcohol for that matter—not the way Kyungsoo and the rest of their friends do. He says it tastes bad, like poison, even worse than coffee. Kyungsoo had been concerned when he asked for soju today. Jongin only touches the stuff when he’s sad or stressed about something, and wants to spiral out of his thoughts by spiking his bloodstream.

“You sure you can handle another?” Kyungsoo asks, brows gathering when Jongin nudges his shot glass across the table again. “This is your sixth one, I think. Or seventh.”

“Course,” Jongin replies, a study in nonchalance with his shoulders in a shrug. “One more, please.” He smooths his hand over his forehead, like he’s going for his bangs. When all he finds is stubble, he stares down at his palm, then horse-laughs wetly into it. “Oh god, hyung, I forgot I was bald!”

Kyungsoo regards him with close eyes. He doesn’t seem stressed or sad right now—the opposite, actually, and more buoyant than usual. So Kyungsoo tops up his shot glass and slides it within reach.

“You look good bald, Jonginnie,” he says simply, and Jongin just _loves_ that. Kyungsoo can tell right away, because he’s so transparent with his feelings. The kid actually giggles (which makes the corners of Kyungsoo’s mouth twitch), then flashes all his teeth in a megawatt smile (which warms Kyungsoo’s chest more than all the shots he’s taken). 

When Jongin knocks his drink back, it makes him cough again. But this time, he just laughs until Kyungsoo laughs along with him, and doesn’t bother disguising his inexperience.

By the time they’ve scraped the bottom of the stew pot, three bottles have been emptied, and Jongin’s face is tomato red. His lips are bloated from the way he’s been biting them, self-conscious after every drunken laugh he lets loose. He’s blinking a lot, and his gaze is unfocused, but there’s something glinting in it that doesn’t quite belong. At least, Kyungsoo thinks, not in the eyes of someone so wasted. It looks a lot like determination, and a little bit of recklessness.

“I think that’s enough for the night,” he tells Jongin, hooking the shot glass out of his fingers and replacing it with water. “Drink this. You’ve got to be up bright and early.”

“You’ve got to be up bright and early,” Jongin repeats, using his lower register to mimic Kyungsoo’s tone. It sounds nothing like Kyungsoo, only a nasal caricature of him, and Jongin’s lips form a puffy little ring over every syllable. It’s just…so cute.

“That’s what I said,” Kyungsoo says patiently. He rises from his seat and rounds the table so he can stand next to Jongin. The water glass ends up in his hands, and he holds it against Jongin’s lips. “Come on. Drink your water. You’ll sleep better.”

Jongin titters, “No, _you’ll_ sleep better,” before taking an obedient sip.

“That’s right,” Kyungsoo humors him, wiping a stray droplet from his chin. “We’ll both sleep better once you drink this whole glass.”

Jongin takes another sip, sloppier this time. “You drink some, too, hyung,” he insists, his breath bittersweet when it fans against Kyungsoo’s face. There’s water dribbling from his lips again. “Water is good for you.”

Kyungsoo smiles down at him. “I know that, kid.” He cleans Jongin up with his knuckles, completely on autopilot. Jongin’s already kind of clumsy when he’s sober, and when he’s smashed, all hand-eye coordination flies out the window.

Jongin’s fingers ghost over his chin. “Thank you, hyung.”

“You’re welcome, Jongin.”

“It’s Jongin _nie._ ”

“Oh, is that right?” Kyungsoo chuckles softly. Soju-soaked Jongin has always been full of aegyo. “Sorry, Jonginnie.” 

Behind their glassy overlay, the kid’s eyes actually sparkle. His bottom lip disappears into his mouth. “You have a really sexy voice, hyung. Did you know that?”

The unexpected compliment makes Kyungsoo start, but he plays it off with a laugh. “You’re so drunk.”

“You’re so pretty,” Jongin ricochets back. “Did you know that?”

Kyungsoo’s mouth drops open just a little. Jongin doesn’t speak to him like this, _never_ has, and Kyungsoo doesn’t know what to make of it. Neither does he know what to make of this recklessness in Jongin’s eyes—because it _is_ recklessness, this racing brightness haloed around his pupils. Kyungsoo had read it completely right.

The determination, too.

“I hope you know that,” Jongin goes on, adamantly, and he forgets he’s helping Kyungsoo hold a glass, so it slides in his grip. Kyungsoo has to take over completely and land the glass back on the table, with Jongin too preoccupied to notice.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, without a shred of pretense, or mischief. “I could stare at you all day.”

Kyungsoo blushes at that, a slow simmer of heat that makes his cheeks tingle. It doesn’t feel bad. Just…wrong.

“I do that sometimes, you know. Stare at you.” And Jongin sways out of his seat, onto his feet. He towers over Kyungsoo now, even with his head lolling. “You just never notice.”

Instinctively, Kyungsoo places his hands on either side of Jongin’s waist, holding him steady. His mind is in a jumble, and that simmer is coming to a boil. “You’re being weird now,” he warns, trying to be offhand about it. “I’m going to take compromising videos of you on my phone to show you tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here tomorrow,” Jongin reminds him, eyes so brown and shoulders so broad. “I’m going away.”

He cups Kyungsoo’s face suddenly, and that doesn’t feel bad either. It feels lovely, like a soft blanket has been pulled tight around him, a shield against this rainy night. Right, not wrong.

That’s what scares Kyungsoo the most.

With panic brewing in his system, he tries to ease out of Jongin’s hold. “Okay, kid, let go.”

Jongin won’t. He keeps his hands on either side of Kyungsoo’s face, and brings _his_ face infinitesimally closer. “Will you miss me, hyung?”

“Yes,” Kyungsoo says quickly, because he thinks it will get him out of this thing faster—whatever it is—but also because it’s the truth.

Jongin smiles at him, or at least tries to, because his drunken mouth can’t seem to finish the full arc. “Do you mean that?”

Kyungsoo shrinks back in his hold. His heart is hammering against his chest. “You know I do." 

“Say it then.” Jongin moves half an inch closer. “Please.” Then he passes his thumbs over Kyungsoo’s cheekbones.

That feels _completely_ wrong, but also completely _electric_ , like Jongin has powered an invisible city sitting over his skin with that tiny movement. Kyungsoo could easily shove him off, pull out the hyung card and demand that Jongin stop with his drunken nonsense and go sleep in his own apartment, if he wanted to.

Only, he doesn’t.

Instead, under the intensity of Jongin’s stare, he admits, “I’ll miss you. Okay? Happy now?”

He doesn’t have the word for what happens to Jongin’s face after that. He’s not entirely sure a single word exists for it. Jongin looks elated, like Kyungsoo’s given him the only gift he’s ever wanted, but also a little anxious, like he knows Kyungsoo could take it back at any moment.

“I’m happy,” Jongin says, and Kyungsoo follows the movement of his Adam’s apple as it rises and falls. “I’m so happy to hear that, hyung.”

He bends his head a touch, and his lips ease the tiniest bit apart, creating just enough space to accommodate a kiss. Kyungsoo is drawn to it like _crazy_ , this silent invitation, like a sailor to a siren on jagged rocks. He shouldn’t be, and he’s frightened by how much he is, even as a voice inside him chants _give in, give in, give in_. Kyungsoo has never felt this kind of pull before, this level of…he doesn’t want to say the word.

_Attraction._

It can’t be that. He won’t let it be. He shakes his head at the thought, trying to brush it away like a persistent buzzing insect.

But...that’s exactly what it is.

_Attraction._

Magnetic, uncomfortable, all-consuming attraction.

Whether he likes it or not, he’s experiencing it now for Jongin _,_ who has always been precious to him, and also happens to be a man _._

All Kyungsoo can think about is the taste of cherry lollipops, and the longing in a brief touch to the back of his hand, and how this will ruin everything, _everything_ , if he lets it.

He ducks his chin as a preventive measure.

Too little, too late.

“I like you, hyung.” Warm hands tilt Kyungsoo’s face up, and warm eyes bear down on him like two suns. “I like you.” Jongin’s skin is still splotchy and red, but it glows a little differently now, with hope. “Did you know that?”

For a second, Kyungsoo goes completely lax in his hands. A sensation boomerangs through him, wonderful and awful at once, like coming home to the safest place on earth, then watching as it crumbles to dust. He _loves_ this, Kyungsoo can tell right away, because he’s lived with his body for twenty-eight years and he knows when it’s telling him what it wants. It just surrenders. 

But he can’t.

He won’t.

_He’s not gay._

“You’re making it weird now.” Kyungsoo presses his lips into a line. “Sober up.” He drops his hands from Jongin’s waist.

Their removal causes Jongin to stumble. His hands slip from Kyungsoo’s face to his narrow shoulders, where he attempts to anchor himself. “Do you like me, hyung?" 

Kyungsoo can’t stomach the thought of hurting him, not when Jongin’s looking at him this way, so naked in the eyes. “I do,” he mumbles. “But—not—”

“‘But not like that.’ Right?” Jongin nods, looking cheerful and not at all upset, like he expected that. He even laughs a little when he lifts his hands off of Kyungsoo’s body, stepping away. “I know.”

Kyungsoo is confused by this, but at the same time, relieved. “You…”

“I know,” Jongin says, leaning against the back of his chair for support, “that you don’t like me as much as I like you.”

Kyungsoo makes a weak attempt to bend semantics. “I like you just fine.”

“And I like you the most.” The chair creaks under Jongin’s weight. “It’s not the same kind, but that’s okay, hyung.”

This time, Kyungsoo tries to explain it away. “That’s just the soju talking,” he rationalizes to Jongin (and to himself). “You don’t really…feel…like that.”

“The soju is my friend,” Jongin replies, eyes fluttering and out of focus. “It tastes like shit, but it helps me say all the shit I need to say, and I don’t feel as shitty after. So we’re cool, me and Chamisul.” His laughter is directed at himself, the sound of it all bubbly. “That was a poem.”

When he pauses to nibble on a hangnail, Kyungsoo just watches him, achy in places. He can smell the inebriation on Jongin’s breath, and see it in the rosy webbing of his eyes, and gauge it in the sluggish delay of his movements. But Jongin comes in and out of these spells of lucidity, where he can carry on a conversation and tell Kyungsoo he feels special around him, and that it’s okay if Kyungsoo doesn’t. And Kyungsoo can’t make sense of it.

Jongin picks something off his tongue, then flicks it away. “Listen, hyung,” he murmurs, and Kyungsoo listens. “Don’t change around me. I would hate that. I would hate you, so much.” He licks his lips, and Kyungsoo wishes he had the guts to touch them. “But if you change your mind…” Jongin trails off, and looks down.

One final indulgence. Kyungsoo will allow himself that. “If I change my mind,” he dares to say, “then what?”

All the walls of his safe place have collapsed around him, and there’s only one thing left in the rubble: a small shelf, covered in dust, where an old, pure tenderness for Jongin waits to be claimed.

“Well, let me know,” Jongin answers, rocking back on his heels. He snorts like Kyungsoo’s asked the most obvious question known to man. “Let me know right away.”

The chair he’s holding on to twists in a bad way, so that finally, with a yelp, clumsy Kim Jongin falls over. 

 

 

(In the morning, when he climbs into his uniform, Jongin is bruised and completely hung over. “We are never going to do that again,” he whines, almond eyes at half-mast. He looks puffy and moody and sleep-deprived, but when Kyungsoo spoonfeeds him _juk,_ he smiles. Nothing is said about…what was said. Kyungsoo’s not sure if he can’t remember, or if he’s simply decided to put it out of his mind. So he matches Jongin, smile for smile, and pats his head, and laces up his boots, and makes him take two Advil before Joonmyun picks them up, so that his head won’t hurt as much as Kyungsoo’s heart.)

 

  

Jongin texts back an hour after the Trastevere dinner, when Kyungsoo’s in his hotel room, absently smoking a cigarette. He’s still buzzing from what just happened, the revelations Minseok was able to pull out of him like so many ribbons from a hat, a magic trick more astonishing than expected. Picking up his phone and seeing Jongin’s name flash across the screen is both a comfort and a thrill after a night of surprises.

_these are great shots hyung_

_you look really cool_

_& really happy_

_i miss you_

_really_

_i miss you a lot_

_see you when you get home_

_:)_  

Kyungsoo passes his thumb over the message, cherishing it and the wistful tone Jongin has taken in writing it. It gives Kyungsoo hope, however faint. The way he has missed Jongin these past few months is palpable, an absence that gives him physical pain, like the twinge of a phantom limb. He’s counted the days backwards since arriving in Italy, so he can keep track of how many are left until he can see Jongin’s face again; the first glimpse of the spring sky after a long, gray winter. He’s at two, now. In two days time, Kyungsoo will be back in Seoul, and he’ll tell Jongin everything. How much he loves him, and has _always_ loved him, underneath it all, and above everything else. Why he denied it for so long, every single time Jongin gave him an opening, even though, every single time, his denial left Jongin out in the cold. How badly he wants Jongin’s love, now, always, if Jongin will let him have it again. How desperately he wants to hear it’s not too late, even though Jongin could be in love with somebody else by now, and it would serve Kyungsoo right after how deeply he took Jongin for granted.

He takes a hard drag of his cigarette, letting the nicotine slick over his nerves. _This is how it must’ve felt_ , he thinks, with a rueful curl to his mouth, _all those times Jongin made up his mind to tell me._

Shin-hye’s text comes in a few moments later.

_Hey sexy_

_I’m off on Friday_

_Come over_

_Any time’s good_

_Bon voyage xx_

Kyungsoo had almost forgotten about her in the mad flurry of the evening: the lone Queen left standing amidst his crumbled house of cards. He sighs audibly, dropping his face in his hands. He needs to speak to Shin-hye first, even before he speaks to Jongin. He doesn’t want to—no, all Kyungsoo wants is to know if Jongin will still have him, and if whomever Jongin is seeing right now is as dispensable as Kyungsoo hopes them to be. But Kyungsoo’s made his bed with her, again and again and again, and now he’s going to have to lie in it. Shin-hye is the loose end that needs tying off, and Kyungsoo will tie her off _tight,_ if it means delaying the big finale for one day more.

Better not to bring any baggage with him when he slides his heart across the table for the kid to keep.

He texts Shin-hye back.

_Thanks noona_

_See you Friday_

_Around five_

He contemplates texting Jongin back, too—something charming and light, and sweet enough to make him flutter (if Jongin still flutters over things Kyungsoo says to him…Kyungsoo doesn’t know anymore). Only, everything he comes up with sounds too revelatory, too premature, like he’s trying to give Jongin a taste of something before its had time to ripen. Ultimately he decides against it, and presses his phone against his forehead.

Two.

Just two more days.

And then, if all goes well, two hundred percent happiness.

 

 

Incheon International Airport is practically Kyungsoo’s second home from the amount of time he spends passing through it. It feels even more like home now, on this dreary September day, with his closest friends waving their hands and wrapping themselves around him in the Arrivals lounge.

Chanyeol and Baekhyun are bellowing way above the acceptable indoor volume limit. _Kyungsoo-yah! We missed you! Kyungsoo-yah! You look like SHIT!_ Sehun doesn’t seem to be mad at him anymore by the way he’s fighting for the most real estate in their group hug. (Kyungsoo is touched by this tacit forgiveness, and pinches him on the cheek for it.) Joonmyun, the only real adult in the bunch, patiently waits for his turn. Kyungsoo hugs him the longest when the others finally relinquish their hold on him.

“Hi Dad,” he says, and then, when Joonmyun tickles his pits, “Stop, goddammit, hyung.”

“Hi grumpy.” Joonmyun concedes. “Jongin says hi, too.”

Jongin isn’t with them at the airport, but Kyungsoo had expected this, having gotten his KKT somewhere over the Black Sea.

_hyung_

_youre on a plane now_

_cant make it to the airport_

_sorry sorry_

_ive got work_

_the others will be waiting for you_

_wish i could come :(_

_(sad how im the one with the creative job_

_but they still have more flexible schedules…)_

_have a great flight_

_come over this week ok_

(Kyungsoo had sent back a _That’s too bad, Jonginnie_ and an _I’ll be there_ and kept it at that, lest his excitement overrule his restraint.)

“How’s your brother?” he asks Joonmyun now, when they’re relatively out of earshot. Sehun is rolling away with his luggage to catch up to Chanyeol and Baekhyun, who are bickering over the least congested route back to Seoul.

“He’s great.” Joonmyun smiles at him. “Glad you guys are friends again.”

Soon, Kyungsoo hopes they will be more, but he keeps that to himself for now. “I saw Minseok-hyung in Rome,” he says quietly. “Do you remember Kim Minseok?”

“Of course,” Joonmyun replies, with a loaded glance his way.

 _Hyung knows about that, too, then._ “He told me some things.”

Joonmyun ruffles his hair. “Good.” He doesn’t bat an eyelash when he adds, “You needed to know.”

They don’t say much after that, content to tail the others as they lead the way to the parking lot. Sehun doubles back to walk beside them, threading his arm through Joonmyun’s and muttering about how these dumbass hyungs won’t take his superior advice. Kyungsoo snaps a grin over his face as Joonmyun gives the maknae his full attention, stroking his cheek and cooing over his annoyance. _He’s me,_ Kyungsoo thinks, absently changing the date on his phone to account for the time difference, _and Sehun is Jongin. Only, Sehun would never hide himself the way Jongin did, and hyung would never break him the way I broke Jongin._

There’s that ache in his chest, right on cue. It’s a good thing Kyungsoo landed in the middle of day, because having this press on him in the dark of night would make him feel terribly hollow.

He types out a quick message to Jongin to let him know he’s back, and carefully asks if they can meet on Saturday, at Jongin’s place.

D-Day.

 

 

The white wine is from Umbria—the exact Orvieto he’d brought Shin-hye the year before. Sweet scent of green apples, mild honey-pear taste, not too much acid. The perfect goodbye gift.

Kyungsoo hadn’t been able to find the balsamic vinegar she’d asked for, so he’d brought a new one instead, from Modena, aged for eight years and luxurious inside its amber bottle. The carnations were an afterthought, but he thought they would round everything out. A thank you or an apology—whatever she would deem more appropriate.

Shin-hye’s apartment building is in Sinsa-dong, just a few blocks away from her bistro, on the ritzy side of town. Kyungsoo takes his car today, so he doesn’t have to stress about carting this artisanal basket around on the subway, but mostly because he refuses to dilly-dally any longer. He’s going to sit Shin-hye down, make a clean break of things, leave this basket on the coffee table in her living room, and drive away. If their business relationship survives their sexual one, great. If not, so be it. Kyungsoo is determined not to drag this on any longer than they should, given the circumstances.

The three-note chime of Shin-hye’s doorbell fills him with a sense of finality. He drops his hand from the chrome button and shifts from foot to foot, feeling nervous all of a sudden. Kyungsoo’s never broken up with anyone before—not that this counts as a break-up, since he and Shin-hye were never together like that. But still. It’s the end of something he carried on for over a year, and awkward as hell.

It _does_ help that he’s neither seen nor spoken to Shin-hye the entire time he was in Italy. He supposes that if they were a real couple _,_ that would probably count as the deadly cool-off period before they ultimately pulled the plug. So this, whatever it is, should be a piece of cake.

(Right?)

Shin-hye hasn’t come to the door. Kyungsoo exhales to relieve the anxiety building in his lungs. He transfers the basket from his left hand to his right and reaches for his phone to check the time. Five past five. Maybe a text is in order. 

_Hey noona_

_I’m outside_

He presses the button again, just for good measure, and waits, and waits some more—until finally, from somewhere inside the apartment, he makes out the sounds of a hurried approach.

“Coming,” Shin-hye’s voice calls out, and Kyungsoo steps back from the threshold so the door doesn’t hit him when she unlocks it.

One click, followed by another, and then the door is swinging open, and Shin-hye’s standing in front of him, tugging a robe around her. The annoyance in her face segues quickly into shock as she recognizes the man in front of her.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, knotting the sash around her waist. “Kyungsoo…”

“Noona,” Kyungsoo says, not knowing what to make of this. Shin-hye is always prompt, and _never_ in disarray, but she looks like she wasn’t expecting him. “Did I come at a bad time?”

“You didn’t come yesterday.” Shin-hye keeps her voice low and calm, but everything else in her demeanor seems flustered. “I didn’t hear from you.”

“Yesterday?” Kyungsoo is flustered, too. “Didn’t we agree on Friday?” He fishes his phone out of his pocket to double-check.

Shin-hye beats him to the punch. “Yes, Friday,” she says tightly. “That was _yesterday_.” She glances behind her shoulder discreetly (but not enough for Kyungsoo to miss), before stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind her. “It’s Saturday today, Kyungsoo.”

 _It’s Saturday today,_ Kyungsoo intones in disbelief, willing himself to understand. _It’s…Saturday…today?_ His hand is curved around his phone, eyes trained on the date and time widget on the upper right corner of the screen. It reads: September 7, Friday, 5:11PM.

The memory comes to him in a cold trickle, like an ice cube stealing down his spine. He’d reset the date on his phone at the airport, with Joonmyun cuddling Sehun to his left and Baekhyun jostling with Chanyeol ahead of them. He’d set the date to one day ahead…or…one day behind? Kyungsoo’s heart stops, for one still moment, then ra-ta-tat, ra-ta-tat, ra-ta-tats in a panic.

He can’t remember.

All he remembers is that he hadn’t had to change the time. The clock had already adjusted to local time…and that means the calendar would have already adjusted as well. South Korea is only seven hours ahead of Italy. He wouldn’t have had to change the date.

 _FUCK._ The back of Kyungsoo’s neck suddenly feels too hot, too tight. He must have set the date to one day behind.

_And he shouldn’t have changed the fucking date._

If it’s Saturday today, what he thought was a quiet Thursday spent locked inside his apartment sorting dirty laundry and ordering Chinese takeout for all three meals was actually a quiet _Friday_ , which he should have spent over at Shin-hye’s, handing over his vintage wine and fancy vinegar and tactfully explaining why he couldn’t see her anymore.

 _It’s Saturday today_ , and Shin-hye is standing in front of her apartment in a robe and house slippers, and her lips are swollen, and her hair is mussed, and they haven’t resolved a goddamn thing.

“I thought maybe you were still jetlagged and hadn’t woken up,” Shin-hye is saying, the sound of her voice going from muffled to crisp in an instant. She tucks a few tendrils of hair behind her ears. “I had no idea you were coming over today, Kyungsoo. I wish you’d texted me.”

“Shit, noona, I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo says, trying desperately to recover. “I thought it was Friday today. Sorry. Fuck.” Internally, he is slapping himself for making the dumbest mistake possible. And also… Shin-hye’s skin is flushed, and there’s a pink mark on the side of her neck. “I reset the date on my phone wrong. Shit. I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this.”

“Oh…” Shin-hye doesn’t look mad. Just a little on edge. “Um…it’s fine.” One of her palms is still flat against the door. “Would you mind coming back tomorrow?”

One of her lips is redder than the other. It’s lipstick residue, not completely smudged off. “Uh, yeah, sure.” Kyungsoo is still distracted by the blotch on her neck.

She catches him looking and fists the collar of the robe so it covers more skin. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a little nod, she turns her back on him and starts to key in her passcode.

“Wait,” Kyungsoo exclaims, remembering the basket in his hand. He holds it out. “I brought you, uh—here’s the stuff you wanted. From Italy.” The bottles bump against one another, and the small flower bundle rustles, smelling of grass.

Shin-hye’s face softens, and a look that Kyungsoo completely despises creeps into her eyes. It’s pity, and makes him feel pathetic. All ten of her fingers are cool when they take the basket out of his hand.

“Thanks, sexy,” she tells him before planting a kiss on his cheek.

One click, followed by another, and then the door is swinging open again. Kyungsoo lifts his head just as Shin-hye turns hers, her hair tickling his mouth. Kyungsoo isn’t sure if the gasp is his or hers, but his mouth fills with the fumes of Shin-hye’s shampoo, and his nose floods with the familiar scent of lavender.

“Hyung?”

The rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat revs up like an engine, and Kyungsoo’s heart pounds, with agonizing force, outside of his chest.

He knows that voice. That face. That long, strong figure darkening Shin-hye’s door. Broad shoulders. Bronze skin. Brown eyes. Baby mouth. Kyungsoo knows them all, because they belong to the most beautiful man in the world.

“…Jongin?" 

Suddenly, Shin-hye is gone, her presence replaced by two powerful arms wrapping around Kyungsoo’s shoulders, and one bare chest pressing hard against his sternum. The air smells less of lavender now, more of aftershave and the musk of a man. 

“Hyung!” is the first thing Jongin says—and it _is_ Jongin, _his_ Jongin, materializing in his space like some sort of ghost. “What the hell…I saw you through the intercom. What are you doing here?” Against Kyungsoo’s neck, he softly breathes, “I missed you.”

That sounds, and feels, so nice. Pleasure prickles sweetly over Kyungsoo’s skin, and his eyes flutter as he fights to keep them open. “What are _you_ doing here?” he ekes out, gingerly placing a hand on the small of Jongin’s back.

That’s when it finally hits him that Jongin doesn’t have a shirt on.

He’s just come out of a woman’s house, shirtless, with only a pair of jeans on and his skin sweaty to the touch. The burst of pleasure fades fast, like the sun slipping away at dusk. Dread goosebumps over every single inch of Kyungsoo’s body, and it feels like he’s outside, in the dead of winter, without a coat on. There are too many emotions rocking him right now, too many of his worlds colliding. And while the warmth of Jongin’s skin against the palm of his hand grounds him, it’s also a cold reminder that Jongin shouldn’t be here _._ Jongin should _not_ be here, in the entrance to Shin-hye’s apartment, where he doesn’t belong.

Unless…

Is he…?

Are they…?

The sound of Shin-hye’s sigh and the melody of her accepted passcode keeps Kyungsoo from continuing either of those thoughts.

“When you two are done,” Shin-hye says dryly from her door, silky robe snug around her, “come in. Someone needs to explain to me what the hell is going on.”

 

  

It’s Jongin who does most of the talking, which is rare. But once he throws a shirt on and sits across that familiar coffee table from Kyungsoo, something in his demeanor changes. He becomes more distant, and his gaze flattens out until it’s neutral, rather than warm. That sweet, sweet man-child who’d rushed to hug Kyungsoo pulls back entirely, replaced by a sophisticated adult who politely recounts how he and the woman next to him met.

Kyungsoo only hears fragments of this explanation. _Noona is in one of my classes_ , and _I had no idea you knew her_ , and _this whole thing started while you were in Italy,_ and _sorry you had to find out like this._ Shin-hye chimes in, too, and Kyungsoo manages to absorb her side, even though he’s dazed and confused and giving in to the dizzy. _I mentioned dance class before_ , Shin-hye tells him, and _Jongin was/is my teacher,_ and _we shared an Uber one night,_ and _this wasn’t planned at all._ She says that last thing twice, right after she echoes Jongin’s _sorry you had to find out like this,_ and Kyungsoo feels stupid and helpless and cold all over.

Shin-hye’s apartment reeks of sex. She and Jongin have the same pink blotches marring their necks. Jongin even had a few littered over his chest that Kyungsoo clocked before he put his shirt on. His nipples were rosy with little red lipstick circles. Shin-hye’s robed arm is touching his arm, and her bare thigh is touching his thigh. Jongin, who never lets strangers into his personal space, shows no sign of moving.

This is _his_ Jongin. 

 _Was_ his Jongin.

“So you’ve been doing…this,” Kyungsoo waves a vague hand, “the full two months I was away?”

“Not the _full_ two months,” Shin-hye begins, but Jongin cuts in and says, “Pretty much, hyung.”

Kyungsoo nods, feeling numb, and Jongin shakes his head, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I know it’s weird.” Quietly, he tacks on, “I swear I had no idea about you and noona,” but it does nothing to cushion the blow. Kyungsoo has to steel himself so he doesn’t wince.

“I had no idea about you two, either,” Shin-hye puts in, and Kyungsoo hates her with every fiber of his being, because even the guilt on her face can’t mask her goddamn pity.

His hate stems from other things, too. More important things, like the fact that the person he loves more than anybody and not like anybody else has been sleeping with her. Shin-hye was the hookup. _The_ hookup. Jongin must be making good on his promise to get over Kyungsoo, like he said he would, if he was willing to dive into something so far outside his comfort zone.

Of course these things are entirely Kyungsoo’s fault, not Shin-hye’s in the least, but he hates her for them, anyway. 

She tries to smile at him. “I mean, I remember you telling me that your friend Joonmyun had a younger brother. But I’d never even spoken to him, much less seen this brother’s face.”

“Really?” Jongin looks between her and Kyungsoo. “You’ve talked about me?” His eyes look vaguely brighter, and softer, almost…hopeful, but Kyungsoo’s not sure if any of that’s meant for him. 

“No,” Kyungsoo replies, curt as can be. Irrational as it is, he hates Jongin a little, too. More than a little. Much more than he hates Shin-hye. “I might have mentioned you once, but that’s it.”

When Jongin’s face shutters, Kyungsoo cuts his eyes in the opposite direction so he doesn’t have to see.

Shin-hye hums. “He said you had a puppy face, Jongin. I should have connected the dots.”

“Ah.” Jongin’s chuckle is low and lifeless. “That sounds like hyung. I’m either a kid or a pet to him.”

Kyungsoo flinches at the memory of the last time this was brought up; how upset Jongin had been with him that night at Chanyeol’s bar. _Stop calling me a kid, I’ve been to the army and back, for God’s sake, hyung._

Kyungsoo was, and is, such a dense fucking idiot. He forces himself to look.

Shin-hye has a thoughtful expression on her face. “That seems accurate, actually.” When Jongin side-eyes her, lip curled, she nudges a knuckle across his nose bridge. Jongin frowns even more at that— _pouts_ is more like it—and he bats her hand away, catching her wrist and shaking his head. They look so cozy, and familiar with each other, and natural—just how one would imagine an older woman and her younger lover to look together. This comfy, sexy chemistry seems leagues more intimate than a casual fuck. And Kyungsoo, in his arrogance, had thought The Hookup would be expendable. 

His heart is stone cold, and aches so, so bad. “Told you, Jongin,” he says, feigning ease, with ash on his tongue. “I just call it the way I see it.”

When Jongin’s eyes flick over to meet his, there’s something unhappy swirling in them. Not even the blasé huff Jongin lets out can cover _that_ up. Kyungsoo feels terrible and vindicated and completely like trash, all at once.

Shin-hye’s attention is back on him, too. “So, by the way this is going, I’m guessing you don’t really care much?” She strokes the back of Jongin’s head. “About me and your pet, I mean.”

Kyungsoo wants to remove her inquisitive hand, remove Jongin from her sex-scented den, remove himself from this reverse love/lust triangle, and make for the nearest uninhabited island, where they can be alone.

But he can’t.

So he takes control of the situation the only way he knows how. 

“Nah,” is his immediate answer, and he makes it sound convincing, too. “I don’t really care much. It’s none of my business, to be honest, noona.” Before he can change his mind, he adds, “You two have fun.”

There. He’s done it. He’s done. He’s out.

Kyungsoo gets up, smoothing down his jeans, which have bunched up around his thighs. As he gets himself in order, he focuses on the basket Shin-hye’s placed between them, taking in the sheen of the bottles and the slight wilt of the flower petals so he doesn’t have to look at anything (or anyone) else.

Jongin gets to his feet, too. “You’re leaving, hyung?” His tone is light. Too light. Kyungsoo’s known him long enough to tell when he’s covering up hurt.

“Yeah, I’m leaving.” Kyungsoo directs his gaze over Jongin’s shoulder, so he can give Shin-hye (also standing) a cocky little nod and grin. How he summons up the strength to do this, when his knees and hands and lips feel like they’re made of jelly, he has no idea. “I’ll see you around, noona.”

“Hyung.” Now Jongin’s voice is small. “Are we still on for later?”

It’s Saturday, Kyungsoo realizes for the second time today. It’s _Saturday,_ and he and Jongin had plans to meet: 7PM, at Jongin’s place. Just the two of them. D-Day.

“Are we still…” There is an infinitesimal hitch in Kyungsoo’s voice. He’s breaking apart. “You seem kind of occupied, though? We can take a raincheck on that, kid.”

He tacks on that last word as his final defense, and it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

All the hurt in Jongin’s eyes evaporates, replaced by a steely, almost angry sort of resolve. This is a six-foot, six-packed adult man that Kyungsoo sees in front of him, stretching up to his full height. The soft, skinny thirteen-year-old with candy in his mouth has disappeared completely. Perhaps forever.

“Sure. Raincheck.” Jongin shrugs, back to blasé, and Kyungsoo knows for a fact that he is going to regret this. “See ya, hyung.”

He’s right: the regret hits him quicker than he anticipated. Because what happens next sets off an avalanche of emotion with regret at its forefront, leading the fall.

Jongin spins around and connects his mouth to Shin-hye’s, so hard that she gasps. She makes a shabby attempt to pull away, embarrassed eyes connecting with Kyungsoo’s desperate ones, and her hands land on Jongin’s chest. But Jongin persists, bracketing her face with his palms and stroking her cheeks with his thumbs as he tilts her to the side, so her mouth opens up for him. He slides in his tongue, and she moans thinly, eyelids swooning. Kyungsoo can make out the dance of pink muscle, can see the determined set of Jongin’s jaw, can feel the weakness in Shin-hye’s knees as she clutches at him, can hear the suction of their lips and the insistence of their exhales and the smothered sounds of their lust.

Distress, jealousy, misery, defeat. Wave after wave, the emotions come, burying Kyungsoo in the drift. He is watching the love of his life slip away, because he was cruel and cowardly, and he let him.

Jongin presses a last moist kiss against Shin-hye’s lips before he pulls off. It’s almost choreographed the way he turns to Kyungsoo and observes, with one brow cocked, “Still here, hyung?”

Kyungsoo knows that was meant to cut him. Touché.

He dips his head, on instinct, in apology. He won’t bother feigning astonishment, or bawdy amusement, because all he feels now is abandoned. “Sorry. See you.” He gathers himself into a pile and deposits himself into an imaginary bag, so he can carry every piece of his broken heart out of there safely. “I’ll see myself out, noona.”

“Bye, sexy,” she replies on impulse, her voice still husky from stifling herself. She colors a little at the sound of that, clearing her throat, and amending her sendoff to, “See you around, Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo is leaving, he really is, he _swears_ to himself that he’s going to get out of this place. But even as he lumbers to the foyer and hastily gets his shoes on, he still hazards a look over his shoulder. He just can’t bear to leave Jongin here, for Shin-hye to touch and taste and taint, and for Jongin to touch and taste and taint her right back, for the nth time. God knows how many times they’ve done that today, or this week, or the two months Kyungsoo was out of the country, discovering himself.

All he wants is eye contact, a quiet nod, anything to acknowledge that Kyungsoo is still…still _special,_ the way Joonmyun’s little brother has always been special to him.

But Jongin is already sauntering in the direction of Shin-hye’s bedroom, stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the side, and Kyungsoo doesn’t get another glance his way.

  

 

Close to midnight, when Kyungsoo has had his fill of staring at the wall and ingested his weight in Glenlivet, Shin-hye’s message pops in.

_Kyungsoo_

_Come back tomorrow_

_We should talk…_

Before Kyungsoo can decline, because he doesn’t plan on ever, ever seeing her again, business be damned, she adds:

_The puppy’s coming too_

Kyungsoo’s never typed this fast, this drunk, and with such perfect spelling _while_ drunk, in the thirty years he’s been alive. 

_Hello, noona_

_It was nice to see you earlier_

_In case you feel uncomfortable_

_About Jongin and I knowing each other_

_And sort of…overlapping (?)_

_It’s really not a big deal_

_I understood our arrangement perfectly_

He wants to add _no harm done,_ but that would be a lie, considering how much damage his limbic system has sustained over the past few hours, crashing and burning under the force of his emotions. Since he saw Jongin there, at Shin-hye’s apartment, like that, his body bare and taken by another—and all this, after their time apart—Kyungsoo hasn’t been able to function. It’s a desolate idea: that this was his last shot at real love, and he blew it in half an hour.

Another message from Shin-hye.

_Don’t get me wrong_

_I really appreciate that_

_You handled it better than most guys_

_You handled it perfectly actually_

_But that’s not what I want to talk to you about_  

_What is it then, noona?_

What is it, Kyungsoo wonders, that drew Jongin to her in the first place?

Was it the way she moved? Kyungsoo has never seen Shin-hye dance, never even heard her play music at home, but he can imagine her fluidity and level of control, based on how she’s used her hips on him. 

Was it the way she spoke? Shin-hye is a woman of the world, better-read than the best of them, and well-versed in everything from Art Basel standouts to how many points the Dow has dropped on a given day. Her mind is seductive like that.

Or was it—and this is what makes Kyungsoo feel the most miserable—was it the way she looked? He knows as well as anybody that Shin-hye is beautiful, both in and out of her clothes. Hers is a blend of classy and racy that would be impossible to resist, even for an equally beautiful young man who’s come out as something other than straight.

Kyungsoo can’t compete with a woman. Especially not a woman like that.

Shin-hye’s final text is spare on the details, and like his pensive theories, leaves much to be desired.

_Like I said earlier_

_Someone needs to explain to me_

_What the hell is going on_


	4. Chapter 4

Tonight, Shin-hye’s apartment is devoid of all scent. Even the usual trail of lavender is absent, or at least muted beyond recognition. She’s tied her hair up in a bun for this, every trace of that lush cascade pulled tightly away from her face. She’s also wearing more fabric than usual: a loose T-shirt, a nondescript skirt, padded house slippers that Kyungsoo’s never seen before. Whenever he comes over, she’s usually veiled in silk and perfume, her smile a silent promise of wicked things. So this sterile, wrapped-up version of her is the opposite of the woman Kyungsoo’s had under him too many times to count.

Shin-hye greets him with a kiss on the cheek and a chilled glass of the Orvieto. She compliments him on his memory of her request, and he compliments her on the success of the bistro, having seen it in a travel magazine on the plane ride back. They make small talk about Italy, and Shin-hye tells him about a trip to Cuba she has lined up, pressing Kyungsoo for recommendations.

Kyungsoo leans against her kitchen counter for this entire conversation, pointedly avoiding the white sectional in the living room. Not because they’ve had sex on it (that feels like a different life altogether), but because he’s almost a hundred percent sure Jongin has. It stings every time he imagines it: Jongin flushed and pliant in Shin-hye’s hands, and Shin-hye’s mouth in places Kyungsoo has never allowed himself to think of.

If Shin-hye notices anything off about his mood, or the way his plastered-on smile dips when he thinks she isn’t looking, she says nothing of it, and only keeps the chatter moving.

Jongin shows up half an hour later, having informed Shin-hye via text that he was tied up somewhere and would be delayed. Kyungsoo suspects it’s because he was stalling and considering not going, especially since Jongin hadn’t texted _him_ , when they’ve been texting every day about the most mundane things. It doesn’t really matter. The minute Jongin enters the living room, drained around the eyes and palpably wary, Kyungsoo’s cold, dead heart gives a little thump, and the only thing he suspects is that he is more in love with this boy than he thought.

Jongin lets Shin-hye kiss him on the cheek, declining the wine she offers him with a small smile. When she goes to put the bottle back in the kitchen, he gives Kyungsoo a little wave, and plops right down on the white sectional.

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo says timorously, kind of, sort of wringing his hands and finding that he can’t stop.

“Hi, hyung,” Jongin murmurs. “Fancy meeting you here.” His eyes focus somewhere above Kyungsoo’s upper lip. “It’s hard to say no to noona when she summons you, huh?”

“Oh. I guess, yeah.” Kyungso tries not to gulp. His throat is dry and scratchy. He puts his glass down on the closest flat surface. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again today.”

“Why not?” Jongin says it like a tease, but the expression on his face seems more like a challenge. “It’s no big deal.” When he pats the spot on the sofa next to him, Kyungsoo only hesitates for a millisecond before making his way over. Moth, flame.

He leaves a body’s space between them—out of respect, or fear, he doesn’t know. Jongin doesn’t breathe a word of reproach, but the purse in his lips means he’s taken note of it.

Shin-hye, on the other hand, takes the seat in front of them, kicking off her slippers and neatly folding her legs underneath her. She’s refilled her wine, and it tinges the air with its sweet apple smell as she swirls it around in her glass.

“So, thanks for coming over.” She takes a dainty sip, and Kyungsoo and Jongin involuntarily lean forward to hear what she has to say. “Yesterday was…well, it was interesting, to say the least. I have some questions.”

Kyungsoo speaks first, because he wants to take responsibility somehow. “Okay. Shoot.”

“Okay.” She traces a slim fingertip over the rim of her glass. “Who fell for who first?”

Kyungsoo chokes on his own spit. Leave it to Shin-hye to mince no words. He’s shaking his head, waving a hand _no_ in response. Knee-jerk reaction. “Noona, that isn’t—”

Jongin cuts him off. “Hyung,” he murmurs, unreasonably calm. “You don’t have to do that.” His elbows rest on his thighs, and his palms curve over his knees. “Noona knows about me, and guys. I told her.”

The walls of Kyungsoo’s throat stick together uncomfortably. “You told…her?”

Jongin nods—a single weary dip of the head—and Kyungsoo’s poor heart, still limping along, dies another death.

“It was me,” Jongin confesses, reorienting himself so he faces Shin-hye head-on. Her brows lift in comprehension. “Hyung never felt that way about me. I checked. More than once.”

Jongin chuckles wryly here, and Kyungsoo is an open wound in saltwater, stinging and struggling. He opens his mouth to say something _,_ not even sure what that something is going to be, _no, I lied, I love you, I was scared and I kept it from you, but I love you, I do, I swear I do—_ but Jongin is still speaking.

“Anyway, that’s all in the past now.” He runs a hand through his bangs, scrunching them haphazardly around his crown before releasing them. He smolders at Shin-hye, telling her, “I got over it after I met you, noona,” and Kyungsoo feels all the blood inside him drain out in a rush.

Shin-hye is rolling her eyes. “Don’t patronize me,” she ripostes. “Little millennial flirt.” But Kyungsoo can tell how much she liked that by the way she hides a smile.

He doesn’t want to hear anymore.

Yet and _still,_ Jongin hasn’t finished. “Me and hyung are cool now, aren’t we, hyung?” He’s crossed one leg over the other, and the top one bounces restlessly, like some sort of coping mechanism. He makes sure to address both Kyungsoo and Shin-hye as he over-shares casually, like he’s passing along someone else’s gossip. “I confessed, like, five times, and hyung passed on me, every time. Ha! The last time, I went away for a bit because I got sad, but eventually I got over it. People always get over shit. And then…I missed hyung, or he missed me, I dunno, maybe it was both. I missed my best friend, basically, so I stayed in touch the whole summer he was away. Right, hyung?”

He stares Kyungsoo down, and maybe it’s not a coping mechanism after all, Kyungsoo realizes. Maybe it’s impatience, or even excitement, to get this explanation over and done with so Jongin can stop talking about the kind of love he doesn’t feel anymore.

“That’s essentially it.” Jongin says without waiting for an answer, before insisting, one final time, “Right, hyung?” He uses the flat of his hand to slice a straight line through the air. “Done. End of story. And now we’re here.”

He’s rushing Kyungsoo through it all, rushing him through years of covertly requited love, rushing him through months of agonizing over why he acted opposite to how he felt, rushing him through twenty-four hours of bewilderment over this twisted web of sex without love and love without sex Kyungsoo tripped and fell into. And Kyungsoo…Kyungsoo has always been selfish, and stoic, and endlessly self-preserving. 

“Right.” When he cuts his eyes at Jongin, there is an odd sense of expectancy on the younger man’s face. It’s completely out of place with this cavalier attitude that’s forcefielded him ever since he stepped foot in Shin-hye’s flat. “We’re just friends, noona,” Kyungsoo says, softer than before. And softer still, “Jongin understands.”

He hazards another glance, and what greets him is something different altogether. Everything, _everything,_ from the droop of Jongin’s brow to the slump in his mouth, and worst of all, the swirl of gray clouds deep within his eyes, says that he’s been hurt. It’s visible, his disappointment, and baffling, too, because Kyungsoo had thought he’d shut himself off. But here Jongin is, in pain over another one of Kyungsoo’s micro-rejections—and Kyungsoo wants to take it back, like he always does, and never can.

“Just friends?” Shin-hye takes two nips of her wine, and her breath, from across the table, smells of honey. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo asserts at the same time Jongin does, and Jongin conspicuously turns away so they don’t make eye contact.

“I’m sure,” Jongin puts in, with too much confidence, and Kyungsoo can’t stomach it, since it clearly comes from the same well of pain.

“I’m…sure,” Kyungsoo repeats miserably. Again, he’s stuck in this vicious cycle of lies and secrecy, because he’s too proud and too cowardly to bust himself out. “But Jongin has always been special to me,” he adds, throwing caution to the wind. It’s the only thing he has the balls to do.

Jongin doesn’t reply to that. He only smooths down the hair on the back of his neck and musses it up again, biting his lips. First the bottom, then the top.

“Well, I could cut through the sexual tension in this room with a knife,” Shin-hye observes, unbothered and out loud. Jongin coughs violently, clearly shocked but trying to pass it off as a laugh. Kyungsoo tries not to let his jaw unhinge. “Look, I’m glad you boys are on the same page and all, working out your differences and whatever, but I still feel like that’s all bullshit.” Shin-hye puts her glass aside and sighs. Her hands express her disbelief, fleshy palms up. “Do you play this weird, competitive cat-and-mouse game all the time? Watching the two of you run circles around each other and trade excuses for ten minutes was exhausting.”

“We do _not_ play competitive cat-and-mouse,” Jongin protests, at the same time Kyungsoo rubs his jaw and mutters, “You shouldn’t exaggerate, noona.”

“You certainly _do_ ,” Shin-hye contends, swiveling her neck in Jongin’s direction, and then, right after, in Kyungsoo’s. “And I do no such thing _,_ excuse you _._ _You_ should see the way you two look at each other.”

“How!” Jongin and Kyungsoo exclaim in unison.

“Like you can’t decide,” Shin-hye informs them, rising from her seat and padding over to their couch, “if you want to hold out until the other one gives in, or just kiss and make up, because you’re both dying to.” She fits into the space between them easily and burrows into the back cushions. “ _That’s_ how.”

“Hyung is straight,” Jongin offers weakly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. It’s an old one, something he’d had way back in college, and it’s worn and soft and some of the buttons are close to falling off. Kyungsoo knows he wears it when he needs comforting. “ _Very_ straight,” Jongin goes on, pulling his sleeves over his knuckles to hide them. “Not gay. Not even semi-gay." 

Kyungsoo would be grateful for the defense, were it not untrue.

Shin-hye picks at one of Jongin’s cuffs, and he lets her. (Kyungsoo notices.) “Does a guy have to be gay to want to kiss another guy?”

“I’m not sure.” Jongin shrugs, and Shin-hye thumbs over the tops of his knuckles through the fabric of his sleeve. When she turns her attention to Kyungsoo, tapping the mole on the lobe of his left ear, Kyungsoo peers into her face, and he feels Jongin’s eyes on his. “Maybe a little.”

Shin-hye hums. “I asked Kyungsoo something similar a long time ago, about sex. He didn’t know either.” She looks down at Kyungsoo’s mouth, and Kyungsoo tries to keep very still, because he knows Jongin is still watching him. Shin-hye wets her lips with a quick sweep of her tongue. “What I know is that I’ve kissed both of you, and slept with both of you, and did the same with my French girlfriend when I was studying in Paris. Which means _I’m_ probably gay, or at least semi-gay. I’ve been told we all fall somewhere on a spectrum.” She laughs quietly to herself, presumably because of how she sounds, then tugs gently on Kyungsoo’s earlobe. “All this gay talk is kind of turning me on.”

Kyungsoo will not look at Jongin. Kyungsoo _will not_ look at Jongin.

Shin-hye makes sure to whisper this next thing, so only Kyungsoo can hear. “I don’t know how you turned the kid down.” She can get away with calling Jongin that, Kyungsoo realizes, because she’s almost ten years older than him. And also…Jongin doesn’t mind. She doesn’t share their history, and she doesn’t know Jongin the way Kyungsoo knows him. “I took one look at that pretty face that night in the taxi,” she purrs, “and I just had to have him.”

The lump in Kyungsoo’s throat won’t go away, no matter how hard he tries to swallow it down. It’s hard candy, coated in caramel so it sticks to his gullet—but the taste of it is completely bitter, not at all sweet.

He doesn’t know Jongin the way Shin-hye knows him, either.

Jongin doesn’t appreciate being left out of the loop. “What was that, noona?” Irritation fits closely around each word, every syllable a tight sound of unhappiness.

Shin-hye strokes the top of his head to soothe him. “I was just wondering if it makes you bi,” she says, “if you’ve fooled around with someone bi.” Even though she isn’t looking at Kyungsoo, it’s clear the question is meant for him.

Kyungsoo is proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t shake. “I wouldn’t know.” He will not look at Jongin. “I’ve always kept to my side of the spectrum.” He _will not_ look at Jongin.

The idea flashes across Shin-hye’s face like a traffic light in a dark taxi. Her smile is seductive, and it stirs up apprehension in Kyungsoo’s belly, like a phantom spasm. She circles Jongin’s wrist bone with the tip of her finger, and Kyungsoo watches it go round and round and round, closer and closer still, until Shin-hye decides to say what she’s thinking.

“Would you like to try something new, then?”

 

 

It is Shin-hye who leans in first, hand curved high on Kyungsoo’s thigh just like their first time, her head centimeters away from perching on his shoulder. Her eyes are half-lidded, and Kyungsoo tries to match them, even as he remains acutely aware of Jongin watching them both.

“Open up, baby,” Shin-hye murmurs against his mouth, and Kyungsoo didn’t even realize he’d been clenching his jaw. He’d only felt it when she’d reached for Jongin’s hand and placed it similarly on _her_ thigh, and the backs of his teeth had creaked from the pressure he’d put on them.

Kyungsoo does as she says, letting her twirl her tongue against his and sucking her lower lip into his mouth the way she likes it. Shin-hye tastes like pure heat, and her fingers are questing leisurely between his legs. In the past, Kyungsoo would be unzipped by now and eagerly returning the favor, gunning for the ego boost of Shin-hye’s audible reactions. But Jongin’s fingers are following her path by proxy, trailing their way up Shin-hye’s skirt the way she’s trailed hers down Kyungsoo’s pants, and Kyungsoo is just…not into it.

She has him in hand now, squeezing over his clothes, and it pulls a sound out of Kyungsoo he doesn’t mean to make. It’s quiet and meaningless, just a symptom of his body betraying him, but Jongin still hears. His eyes dart from Kyungsoo’s mouth, working solidly against Shin-hye’s, to Kyungsoo’s eyes, staring right back at him, and they hold each other’s gazes for a charged moment. It fosters an exchange of unspoken emotions—envy and longing, on Kyungsoo’s end, and on Jongin’s, an intensity he can’t quite pin down. It looks like…Kyungsoo doesn’t know what it looks like. But it _seems_ , if anything, a little pained.

Then the moment is over, and Jongin averts his eyes, lowering his head so he can mouth against Shin-hye’s neck.

He lowers his hand, too, so he’s wrist-deep under her skirt. It’s Shin-hye’s turn to make a sound. Her moan is soft and throaty, and it fills Kyungsoo with distress, thinking of how Jongin must be touching her, underneath those thin folds of fabric, to make her react in such a way.

“Just like that,” she murmurs, and Jongin sucks beneath her jaw, his hand moving between her legs, and Kyungsoo _hates_ this, _all_ of this. His mouth is crowded with Shin-hye’s tongue and the vibrations of her moaning, and his mind and body are overwhelmed by the need to just _get out._  

But Jongin...Jongin is here. And he looks beautiful with his eyes closed, his throat exposed and his Adam’s apple bobbing under that golden skin, his body so close to Kyungsoo’s and so vulnerable in its desire, even with another body between them. Once again, the thought comes to Kyungsoo, unbidden, that he can’t leave him here, he just _can’t leave him here_ , to be alone with her. And if that means having to watch Jongin do everything he and Shin-hye do together when Kyungsoo isn’t around, then Kyungsoo is going to watch, and stay all night, and see things through to the very end. He knows he’ll get nothing out of it, knows he won’t stop anything from happening even if given the opportunity—because he’s a coward, and a big one, at that. But Kyungsoo’s come too far to turn back now.

He’s stopped kissing Shin-hye, or she’s stopped kissing him, he’s not sure. It doesn’t really matter, because Shin-hye’s lips are brushing against Jongin’s ear now, shaping themselves over indecencies to spur him on. Her other hand has cupped Jongin over his jeans, so she now has a man under each palm. Kyungsoo hears Jongin groan, short and sweet. The melody of it makes him swoon and cracks his heart apart in one blow.

To distract himself from this spectacle—because all he’s doing now is watching Jongin seduce the woman between them and get seduced right back—Kyungsoo pushes Shin-hye’s shirt up to her collarbones. She’s only wearing a bralette underneath, lacy and inconsequential, and he parts one side so he can lick around a tight bud.

“Oh,” Shin-hye breathes out, and the hand she has over Kyungsoo palms him a little faster. “That feels nice.” Kyungsoo hears Jongin curse somewhere above him. Shin-hye’s hand has quickened for him, too, her rolling wrist in Kyungsoo’s line of sight. He looks up, her nipple in his mouth, and sees that Jongin is kissing her. But Jongin’s eyes have flung themselves open, and are staring down at him even as Jongin slots his lips against Shin-hye’s, again and again.

It’s warm, so deliciously warm, this feeling that suffuses Kyungsoo’s entire body like fresh blood. Under the full glare of Jongin’s attention, he resurrects. It doesn’t even matter what Jongin’s looking at, or why he’s looking (although it makes Kyungsoo hope for something he knows he shouldn’t hope for anymore). All that matters is that Jongin sees him, sees right _through him_ it feels like, and Kyungsoo is just grateful not to be ignored, even with Shin-hye hot and panting in their midst.

Emboldened, Kyungsoo licks a slow, wide stripe over the same pink bud. Shin-hye grits her teeth and moans—and Jongin (Kyungsoo’s heart skips a beat just watching him move), Jongin parts his lips and feeds his tongue into Shin-hye’s mouth. When her tongue comes up to meet his, he uses a slow, wide stroke to greet it.

Buttons unfasten with a muffled pop, and zippers scrape down metal teeth, and suddenly, Shin-hye’s hand is inside Kyungsoo’s underwear, curled around him in a familiar grip. She’s gotten in Jongin’s pants, too, he’s guessing, because Jongin’s gone all stiff in the thighs, and he pulls away from her kiss with a gasp.

“Does that feel good, puppy?” she whispers to him. Jongin’s mouth slackens as she strokes them both in tandem, he and Kyungsoo never breaking eye contact. “I want you to do what he’s doing,” Shin-hye instructs, playfully biting the lobe of Jongin’s ear. Her chin juts out in Kyungsoo’s direction. “Get down there with your friend.”

Kyungsoo only has a few seconds to absorb what’s about to happen, that the wall Shin-hye had posed between them is about to come crashing down—and then bodies are shifting, and his eyes are readjusting to a whole new view. It’s Jongin’s face—flushed and dewy and craving, somewhat— _in his face_.

Eyes locked on Kyungsoo’s own, Jongin peels black lace away and suctions his lips around Shin-hye’s untouched nipple. Her sultry _yes_ filters through the air above them, but neither of them bother to look. They just stay at face level, kissing Shin-hye where she’d asked to be kissed, soaking in each other’s attention. Kyungsoo still doesn’t know why Jongin won’t stop staring; can’t make out if the expression in his eyes is competitiveness, or something about control, or simple, obvious lust. He knows what he wants it to be. That’s easy: _jealousy_. Because if Jongin was jealous, it could mean that he was still in love with Kyungsoo, or at least, hadn’t forgotten how much he used to be.

When Shin-hye flicks her wrists in a particularly affecting way, both men involuntarily shut their eyes to take it. Jongin bites down on his lip, trying to stifle another one of his sounds and failing. Kyungsoo catches that just before his eyes roll to the back of his head. The threads that had woven their gazes together, near-invisible, are broken—and it seems another important moment has passed, like the one before it.

Kyungsoo doesn’t want to come like this, with one of Shin-hye’s hands on him where Jongin can see, and her other hand on Jongin where Kyungsoo can’t. He doesn’t want to see Jongin come apart under someone else’s hands, when Kyungsoo hasn’t ever gotten the chance to touch him, and tell him why he wants to touch him, and ask if Jongin’s ever thought about touching Kyungsoo in his bed.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, heart beaten to a pulp, that Kyungsoo jumps when someone’s fingers circle his wrist. He snaps to attention, and it’s Jongin holding him, staring at him with heavy eyes, like the moment hasn’t passed at all, and they’re both suspended in animation.

“Hyung,” he mutters. “Help me do this.” Then he takes Kyungsoo’s hand and draws it all the way up Shin-hye’s skirt, so they can do “this” together.

Everything that follows is hot and wet and frantic, all three of them racing to get to the end of a swiftly shrinking road with something shining at the end of it. Jongin’s hand overlaps with Kyungsoo’s, their fingers sliding over one another as Shin-hye moans out their names, and when to go faster or harder. Her hands fly between their legs as they lap at her breasts, collarbones, neck, and back again, her skin tasting of salt and sex. All the while, Kyungsoo holds Jongin’s gaze, trying to imagine that it’s just the two of them in this room, so that when Jongin groans that he’s close, so close, Kyungsoo can pretend that that’s his doing, not Shin-hye’s. His body is a champagne bottle, bubbling up fast, ready to be uncorked.

Jongin comes with a rich sound at the back of his throat and a helpless slope to his brows that makes Kyungsoo’s chest ache. Shin-hye follows, thighs quivering with the last of her moans, head lolling until it comes to a stop on Kyungsoo’s shoulder. Her exhales turn into surprised laughter when she realizes Kyungsoo hasn’t finished, and she keeps her hand on him, stroking lazier than before, but still stroking, and stroking.

Jongin sees. Kyungsoo stupidly, loyally, hasn’t stopped looking at him, so he gets a front-row seat to Jongin shaking himself out of his post-coital haze. His movements are like molasses, sticky and slow, when he heaves his upper body over Shin-hye’s torso. The goal, it seems, is to get as close to Kyungsoo as possible, because the next thing Kyungsoo knows, Jongin’s whispering in his ear. 

“Come on, hyung.” 

That’s all he says. Three words, in that familiar nasal voice of his, brimming with affection. Then Jongin leans his forehead against Kyungsoo’s forehead, and rests his hand on the back of Kyungsoo’s neck, and Kyungsoo comes undone like a robe in the wind.

 _Mine,_ Kyungsoo cries out silently as he spills the last of himself over Shin-hye’s slowing hand. _Mine, mine, mine,_ he intones, clenching his teeth as Jongin rubs their foreheads together to soothe him. Jongin gets too close at one point, and ends up rubbing the tips of their noses together, too. That tiny little Eskimo kiss makes Kyungsoo swell up with longing, and he turns his face up, just a touch, before he knows what he’s doing.

For the last time, their eyes latch, and Kyungsoo bathes in the afterglow emanating from Jongin’s face. He’s deadly like this, completely in the raw, with his skin glossy and his mouth unsure and his hair falling into his eyes, begging to be brushed aside. There go those lashes of his, casting long shadows as his eyes sweep over Kyungsoo’s face, soft and searching. Kyungsoo isn’t sure if he is being asked a silent question, or if Jongin is giving him a silent answer. But Jongin’s lips are half an inch closer than they were a couple of seconds ago, and Jongin’s fingers are curling into the short hairs at his nape, and maybe if Kyungsoo stays very, very still, Jongin will tell him everything, _everything,_ with a different kind of kiss.

He doesn’t.

Instead, a hundred, thousand micro-reactions scatter like marbles across Jongin’s countenance. He nudges his forehead away from Kyungsoo’s, then drops his hand as though it’s been burned. The worst part is when he drops his eyes. To Kyungsoo, that feels like a little death. They’ve been holding this fragile, complicated thing between them, and holding it very well, under the circumstances, until someone fumbled and let it slip, and now the thing is in pieces on the ground.

The moment has passed.

Kyungsoo is sure of it now.

He’s sure, because Jongin twists away from him with a look of determination and descends upon Shin-hye with the kiss that was meant for Kyungsoo.

She receives him with a hum, her fingers raking through his hair and one leg hooking over his hip. “Did you enjoy that, puppy?”

There’s no real answer: only the noncommittal sigh of a younger man, and some lethargic smacking sounds. Once, twice, more times than he cares to count, Kyungsoo watches His Kiss pass from Jongin’s lips to Shin-hye’s. Until finally, he tears his eyes away, and tucks himself back into his pants.

 

 

What Kyungsoo likes most about the train ride up to Paju is seeing all the soldiers on their way back from vacation leave. He plays this game where he tries to guess which ones are friends with Jongin, based on what little of their personas he can make out during the hour-long journey from Seoul. It’s always a tie between the boisterous ones, who crack jokes like Baekhyun and laugh with their whole bodies like Chanyeol (because Jongin, for all his moodiness, has always adored the mood-makers), and the quiet ones reading alone in the corner, or just staring out the window, watching trees and fields and mountains zip by. These ones remind Kyungsoo of himself, and it goes without saying that he usually decides on them.

He’s wrong, though, this week. His pick, a broody type with the build of a runner and a dog-eared Aldous Huxley tucked under his arm, passes by them in the visitors’ lounge without so much as a glance. It’s the perky giggler with the face of a baby—the very one Kyungsoo had ruled out first—who hip-checks Jongin’s shoulder as he weaves between tables.

“Oh, Jonginnie-hyung, was that you?” Babyface titters, even though he clearly did that on purpose.

Jongin swats him on the butt. “Say hello to my hyung,” he barks without bite.

Babyface bends low at the waist for a formal bow. He looks too young to be in the army. “Hello, Kyungsoo-hyung.”

The mention of his name makes Kyungsoo arch an eyebrow. He dips his head shyly, pursing his lips. “Hello…there.”

Babyface dissolves into a fit of giggles. Even though he’s still confused, Kyungsoo can feel the small ‘o’ of his mouth turn up slightly at the corners. This kid’s laugh sounds so much like Jongin’s: a burbling octave of happiness.

“Hyung, this is Jaehyun,” Jongin says.

“I’m Jaehyun,” Babyface repeats, showing the dimple in his cheek.

“Hi.” Kyungsoo gives him a little wave, and Babyface beams.

Jongin swats him on the butt again. “He’s in my bunk—”

“I sleep next to Jonginnie-hyung~”

“—and I told him you were coming today.”

“He’s been _so_ excited, hyung,” Babyface stage-whispers.

 _Ah,_ Kyungsoo mouths, sliding his eyes Jongin’s way, as Jongin holds up a loose fist.

“Jung Jaehyun…”

The owner of that name bounces his shoulders to a soundless beat, completely undeterred. “That’s me!”

Kyungsoo doesn’t bother hiding his amusement, laughing openly as Jongin play-punches the air around this pixie of a boy.

“Jonginnie-hyung’s told me _everything_ about you,” Babyface says in the cheekiest of tones, dodging every one of Jongin’s feigned strikes.

“Like what?” Kyungsoo humors him, genuinely curious.

The dimple in that cheek sharpens to a point. “That’s a secret.”

Then Jongin’s palm lands soundly on his mouth, and Jung Jaehyun scampers off, leaving a trail of high-pitched giggles in his wake. “Bye, Kyungsoo-hyung!” he calls out, brandishing a finger-heart before exiting the lounge.

Kyungsoo chuckles. “Cute kid.” He wonders what exactly Jongin’s said about him, and if it’s what Kyungsoo _hopes_ he said, against his better judgment, about the hyung he’d called “mine.”

Jongin picks at the seafood pancake Kyungsoo’s brought him as a snack. “Not as cute as me, right?” he asks, halfway into a pout.

Kyungsoo busies himself with his chopsticks, tearing up the _pajeon_ into bite-sized pieces. “Of course not.” He can barely bite back a smile, and it both exhilarates and frightens him.

Jongin makes a sound of approval. Kyungsoo uncaps a plastic sauce container for him, and Jongin dunks a piece of egg-battered shrimp into it. When he pops it into his mouth, he makes another sound—one that rumbles in his chest and feeds Kyungsoo’s ego.

“What did you tell Jaehyun about me?” he ventures, feeling brave and narcissistic and also like he’s teetering on the edge of a tall building. He stuffs some of his own cooking into his mouth in an attempt to shut it up.

“I just told him you’re the hyung I’m closest to,” Jongin says simply, chewing his food.

Kyungsoo can’t hold his tongue. “What was the secret?” He practically rolls his own eyes at himself. _Stupid, stupid narcissist._

“No secret.” Jongin’s tone is matter-of-fact. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the edge of his thumb. “He just knows that I like you best is all.” He clears his throat quietly, poking at the _pajeon._ “I’ve always liked you best. But you already know that.”

It unfurls in Kyungsoo all at once, like a flower flinging itself open to the warmth of dawn—this jumble of relief, and yearning, and impossible, impossible attraction. He balks at the return of it, and his exhilaration takes on the bitter aftertaste of fear, but it’s definitely attraction, the same attraction that had taken his body hostage like a virus on Jongin’s last night in Seoul. It’s _definitely_ attraction…maybe even something bigger. Kyungsoo just knows it when he feels it, because it feels like flying, and he’s so far above the ground now, soaring high into the clouds, that his fear is but a tiny speck below, and Jongin is the big, bright sun overhead.

He’s thought of nothing else these past few weeks, now months, but the memory of that night. It haunts Kyungsoo daily, coming to him like the refrain of a song before he closes his eyes to dream, and echoing in his ears when he opens them up again to wake: how Jongin had told him, in so many words, that he had given Kyungsoo his heart.

But Kyungsoo…Kyungsoo’s not gay. He’s never been, and still isn’t, and won’t ever be, _can’t_ ever be, not even after all these weeks and months of thinking of only Jongin. Kyungsoo likes girls, not boys. And Jongin is a boy, a beautiful boy, a boy Kyungsoo won’t let himself have, not even if he is beloved and truly wanted and all there for the taking. 

He can’t.

Not ever.

Because Kyungsoo’s not gay. He just…wants Jongin…all to himself.

That’s all.

And that’s fine.

Right? 

That beautiful boy is studying Kyungsoo from across the table, head tilted to one side. The tips of his chopsticks are tucked into his mouth and the corners of his lips are turned up, encouraging. His eyes are the color of hot cocoa, and his face is full of warmth and anticipation.

_You already know that, right?_

_That I’ve always liked you best._

“I know.” Kyungsoo tries to sound casual and somewhat reassuring, but only manages to feel like he’s cheating them both. “I know you do.”

“Good,” is Jongin's quiet riposte, and his hot cocoa eyes melt a little in the middle. “As long as you know, hyung.”

When he smiles, it’s all radiance and simple, boyish pleasure, and Kyungsoo experiences the acute absence of a chased-after happiness dangling just out of his reach. _Maybe someday,_ he thinks for the briefest of moments…and then, like clockwork, he catches himself, and closes his heart.

 

 

Kyungsoo’s text had been brief and painfully polite, sent four days after what they’d all done at Shin-hye’s.

_Jongin_

_May I come see you today?_

_If you’re not too busy_

_I need t_

The cursor had blinked next to that _t,_ beneath Kyungsoo’s thumb, for a minute and then another, and then several more, before Kyungsoo had thrown caution to the wind, _fuck it,_ and typed out the last four words:

_to tell you something_

Jongin’s reply had been swift and equally brief, with an edge of hostility to it that Kyungsoo couldn’t be sure was imagined.

_ok hyung_

_home all day_

_come over_

_lets talk_

It sounded like a dare, almost. And for a split second—maybe even shorter than that—Kyungsoo considered (and this is hard for him to admit, because it was cowardly) taking it all back and backing down from the fight. But his fingers fly over the screen of his phone so fast that he can’t stop them, and before he knows it, he’s sent back a _See you soon, Jonginnie._  

The apprehension comes in waves, collecting over Kyungsoo’s skin like beads of sweat from the moment he received that message to the second just before Jongin answered his door. 

And then Jongin answers the door, and he looks…just the way he should. Soft sweater, soft hair, hard eyes, hard mouth, everything Kyungsoo had pictured in every welcome dream and lucid nightmare he’d had about Jongin before this day arrived. And Kyungsoo’s body is biphase, everything above his stomach diminishing into smoke and everything below liquefying into jelly. He’s never been afraid of Jongin before—didn’t even realize it could be possible—but Kyungsoo feels nothing _but_ fear now, rising from his ankles to his knees, then to his stomach and chest, until finally it has him by the throat, all at once, high tide in treacherous waters, as their eyes tentatively meet.

He wonders if the precise amount of suffering he has inflicted on Jongin throughout the years like so many invisible beatings will come back to him today, tenfold, in the small, potent grenade of _I don’t love you anymore, hyung._

“Hi,” Kyungsoo says quietly, and without ceremony. He clutches the carefully packed bento he’s brought along with him closer to his stomach.

“Hyung.” Jongin steps aside. His skin is plush, like fine suede, and his head is low and respectfully distant. “Come in.”

Jongin’s apartment isn’t spotless. There’s always some sort of dirty laundry tossed over his furniture; maybe a takeout box or two yet to be discarded. But it’s comfortable and familiar, and it steeps Kyungsoo in nostalgia just looking around. 

There’s the tan leather sofa he’d helped Jongin pick out when he first moved in, and behind it, the gallery wall of postcards Jongin had gotten him to assemble for him (each postcard a gift from Kyungsoo’s many travels). Over in the kitchen, opposite the stove, is the tacky neon sign Jongin had found at a flea market and insisted on installing at his house. It reads “Eat, Drink, Dance” and glows a lurid green, and Kyungsoo had bitten his tongue instead of saying it belonged in a strip club the minute Jongin declared his love for it. They’d found Jongin’s breakfast table at that same flea market, a lived-in light wood thing that Kyungsoo loves because it looks honest and has seen them through many a meal, both planned and impromptu. There’s a stain on it from that time three years ago when Kyungsoo caught Jongin making eyes at him, and subsequently spilled his coffee in his haste to look away.

He still remembers.

Jongin clears his throat. “What’s that?”

The bento is still warm in Kyungsoo’s hands, wrapped carefully in his mom’s pale blue silk _bojagi._

“Oh, this…” Kyungsoo lingers in the portal that separates the kitchen from the living room, and Jongin stands behind one of the two chairs at his breakfast table. It looks like he’s using it as some sort of shield, with his hands over the backrest like that. “I brought us dinner.”

“I already ate,” Jongin tells him, and Kyungsoo can tell he’s lying.

He steps up to the table and sets the bento down, picking at the knot of the wrapping cloth. “It’s your favorite,” he says gently, taking the lid off the box. _Samgyeopsal._ “There’s jjigae, too.” Kyungsoo unshoulders his backpack and produces a large steel thermos from it, then a bottle of Chamisul. “And soju.”

“I already ate, hyung,” Jongin insists, tone polite but eyes stony. “I’m not hungry. Sorry you had to go through the trouble.” The chair he’s gripping creaks in his hold. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

There will be no roundabout conversations tonight. No pleasantries. No catching up. Jongin is staring him down like a hawk with a mouse in sight, daring Kyungsoo to look away, or change the subject, or do whatever it is Kyungsoo usually does to worm his way out of telling the truth.

This time, Kyungsoo will not be a coward.

He places the soju and soup thermos on the table, next to the bento, pushing them away from him so he doesn’t fiddle with his props. “About what happened at noona’s…”

“You mean our threesome?” Jongin puts in airily, and the last word makes Kyungsoo wince.

“Yes.” He curls his toes in. He will not drop his eyes. He _will not_ drop his eyes.

Jongin won’t, either. “Did you like it?” His cheekbones are sharper than they were four days ago, when Kyungsoo had been inches away from his face. Slick skin, well-kissed mouth.

“Did you?”

“It was fun.” Jongin takes one hand off the chair and flips his bangs over his forehead. Twice. The laugh he lets out has no melody in it. “Didn’t you think it was fun, hyung?”                          

Kyungsoo stares at him stolidly for a moment. The back of his neck chills. “No.” He can hear his saliva inch down his throat when he swallows and the crinkling sound his tendons make when he shakes his head. “I hated it.”

Jongin’s face sags from brow to jaw, his mouth losing all its flinty resolve. And then, in the blink of an eye, everything is cement again. Kyungsoo catches the entire millisecond of this transformation, and the flicker of pain at the end of it, too.

“Ah,” Jongin murmurs, and there is no trace of pain this time. Just a small quiver of a smile that hangs off the side of his face and doesn’t quite settle in his eyes. “You didn’t like that I was there.”

Kyungsoo’s mouth parts on a breath. He shakes his head and takes a step forward. “That’s not it.”

Jongin takes a step forward, too, but only to scoop up everything Kyungsoo’s deposited on his table. “You don’t have to deny it, hyung, I won’t take it against you. Must’ve been weird for you having a guy there while you were trying to get it in.” He takes a step back, a _big_ step, with his arms full and his face hollow, and Kyungsoo’s heart falls through the floor.

_I don’t love you anymore, hyung._

“Jongin, listen.” The sense of urgency is palpable now, like a raging fever, or a terrible case of heartburn. It heats Kyungsoo up and sucks every last bit of moisture from the inside of his mouth. “I wasn’t trying to get…to do that. I didn’t go there to—”

Jongin turns his back, stalking towards the fridge and yanking the door open. “You don’t have to explain.”

“ _Listen,_ ” Kyungsoo begs, and he really _is_ begging from the way his voice strains. “Jongin, I only went over there to see _you_.”

Jongin stuffs the bento into the fridge and slams the door. “Oh, you saw me, all right.” He bangs the thermos down next to the sink, where all his dirty dishes are, and leans against the counter to stare at Kyungsoo. His countenance is bleak, and he looks nothing like himself. “Saw my dick on a random Sunday night. I’m sure that was awkward.”

The anger fizzes up in Kyungsoo’s throat all at once, hot and sour, like he’s going to vomit.

“Stop _doing_ that!” he snaps, hand jabbing the air next to his cheek in punctuation.

Jongin startles so hard, his mouth falls open—and there he is, thank god _,_ that soft-eyed boy, Kyungsoo’s first love and favorite, favorite person. Kyungsoo recognizes him in that brief moment, and he pushes through the remorse that soaks through his skin like a bad bleed, resisting the urge to apologize for losing his temper, because he’s not sure how long Jongin will let him keep talking. 

“Why are you acting like I don’t care about you?” Kyungsoo shakes out. He’s shaking all over. “Like I’m… _disgusted_ by you? You know _,_ you _must_ know how much I—” The break in Kyungsoo’s voice feels physical, like an actual tear in the larynx. “Is that how you think about me? That I’m some gay-squeamish _bro_ who just puts up with you?”

“No, hyung,” is Jongin’s answer. He looks like he’s about to cry. “I know you care." 

“Do you really, Jongin?”

“Yes.” The word is spoken in an undertone.

“Then why won’t you just listen and let me talk?”

“Have you come to reject me again?” A tear steals down a burnished cheek, and Jongin angrily brushes it aside. His skin blazes red. “Because if you have, don’t bother. You made it clear the last time—and all the other times before that—that I don’t have a chance in hell with you.”

That slices clean through Kyungsoo’s chest. “Jongin—”

“Don’t worry.” Jongin inhales, quick and deep, and at the very end of that breath, there is a tiny little hitch. “I don’t love you anymore, hyung.”

There’s the grenade. Six words, six firing pins, each one pulled by Jongin himself, each one hurled in Kyungsoo’s path with the intent to detonate.

Kyungsoo shuts his eyes. He waits to feel himself blow up, to shatter into a million pieces and experience the complete loss of the only person who was meant to make him whole.

But Kyungsoo does not blow up.

Kyungsoo does not shatter into a million pieces.

Nothing detonates.

All the oxygen leaves the room, and anguish floods in like dark after twilight. And Kyungsoo experiences pain, all right, but it’s not the pain he was expecting. It’s not the pain of loss—not his own, at least.

It’s the pain of understanding exactly what someone else was willing to lose for him.

(“Fine,” Jongin had said on that awful day at that empty café. “I’ll give you up, then.”)

That tiny little hitch echoes through Kyungsoo’s entire being. It had nothing to do with the amount of oxygen in Jongin’s lungs, or lack thereof, or how Jongin was struggling to keep his emotions in check, so that his eyes wouldn’t give way to the rivers behind them. That tiny little hitch was hesitation. That hesitation meant something. It _meant_ something, like the glimmer of a secret on a dusty shelf meant something, despite years of pretending it didn’t exist.

The weakest, most translucent trickle of hope seeps into the room alongside Kyungsoo’s anguish, and he lets it embolden him, just this once.

“Well, I still love you.” There are tears on Kyungsoo’s cheeks, and bile on his tongue, and hope dying in his heart. “It’s probably too late now, and you would be well within your right to turn me away, but for what it’s worth, I _love_ you. I was lying when I said I never did. I know that hurt you—I know _I_ hurt you. A lot. And I’m sorry, Jongin, I’m so sorry. You’re perfect the way you are, and I’m such a mess. But I…I still love you.”

All the blood drains from the face opposite his. “No, you don’t,” Jongin rasps out, frighteningly ashen. His pillowed mouth attempts to move over words that won’t come.

“Yes, I do.” Kyungsoo can’t process this reaction, but he won’t let that stop him. “I came here tonight to tell you that I’m in love with you. That I’ve _been_ in love with you.” Jongin’s crying now, pale face pinking up and glistening as his tear tracks replenish themselves. Kyungsoo won’t let that stop him either. “I came here to tell you I was wrong, all those times before, and you were right. You’ve always been right. You’ve always been right for _me_. I don’t know why I just couldn’t accept it, and you, and myself.” He tries to take a breath here, and it comes out as a gasp. “But that’s all changed, Jongin. _I’ve_ changed. I’ll change some more, if you need me to.”

Jongin has covered his mouth with both hands. His eyes are wide, and he won’t say a word. Is this disbelief? Alarm? Horror? Kyungsoo can’t tell, and the panic is starting to set in, icy fingers clamping over his throat. But there are things that need to be expressed, and those things take precedence over his fear. 

“I hated what happened at noona’s.” He hangs his head. “I wanted to tell you that. I hated it because I wanted us to be…alone. For that. Just the two of us. One day, if you would’ve let me.” He flusters at the thought, and he knows his face has changed color from the way his skin is pulsating. “I’ve never even kissed you, Jongin, and it broke me to see you do that with her right in front of me.”

Suddenly there are hands, warm hands, cupping his face and turning it upwards. The icy grip around Kyungsoo’s throat releases, and he finds himself locked in Jongin’s gaze.

“I’ve kissed you, hyung.” Jongin’s eyes teem with a thousand emotions. They clamber over one another like animals in treetops, so fast and shadowy that Kyungsoo can’t capture any of them, save one. “I kissed you when I was thirteen,” Jongin reminds him, and all Kyungsoo sees is wild, wild hope. 

“I loved you when you were thirteen, and I didn’t even know it.” His tongue trips over itself in his haste to get the words out. He clings to the hem of Jongin’s sweater. “Don’t give up on me.”

Jongin’s hands are still on his face. His eyes have shuttered, a half-shade darker with doubt. “How can you be so sure? You’re not…you’re straight. Right? I thought you were straight!”

“And I thought I could only feel this way about a woman,” Kyungsoo shoots back. “But you’re not a woman, and I don’t want anyone else _but_ you.” He balls up more fabric from Jongin’s sweater in his hands, gripping tight so Jongin can’t get away. “Besides, we all fall somewhere on a spectrum, right?”

Jongin doesn’t laugh—he doesn’t even crack a smile. But the doubt in his eyes shifts into something lighter, the color of surrender. “Are you sure about this, hyung?”

Kyungsoo is afraid, so terribly afraid that he can barely stand, but his fear is dwarfed by his determination, and he will not choke this time. A rueful smile reshapes his mouth. “Are you sure you don’t love me anymore?”

Jongin shakes his head in wonder, _no, no, I’m not sure at all._ This is Kyungsoo’s cue, and he seizes the moment. He slides his arms over Jongin’s so they’re holding each other the same way, faces cradled in each other’s palms, watching each other closely. Then he cranes up, and waits for Jongin to shut his eyes, and lets His Kiss pass from his willing mouth into his true love’s waiting one.

It’s slow at first, like they’re both trying to give each other space and suss each other out. But the moment their tongues touch, Kyungsoo lets his inhibitions fall away, and they fall hard into one another, clutching at firm muscle and fluffy hair. Jongin lets out the prettiest sound—a distillation of longing and delight, with a little bewilderment mixed in. Kyungsoo loves it, and he swears to do everything within his power to make sure Jongin makes that sound _only for him,_ and for good. Then they’re stumbling across the kitchen like they’re drunk, lips locked and hands full, until Jongin’s back hits a wall, and Kyungsoo inadvertently knocks their foreheads together.

Jongin jerks away first. “Ow.” His fingers survey the damage to his forehead.

“Did I hurt you?” Kyungsoo worries aloud. He sweeps Jongin’s fingers aside to kiss the tender spot.

Jongin sounds a little funny when he answers yes. Kyungsoo peers at him, and he’s crying again, gnawing on his lip as more tears roll down his face.

“Oh, Jonginnie…”

“You hurt me, hyung,” Jongin says, his voice thick. “You hurt me really bad.” His tears web his lashes together. Kyungsoo would be fixated on how pretty he looks when he cries, his lips still beestung from their kiss, were the kid not talking dangerously right now.

“I know I did. Please...don't hate me, Jongin.”

“It kind of fucked me up, you know? When you said you didn’t want me.”

That's a jagged little pill Kyungsoo has to swallow. “That was a lie. I’ve always wanted you. _Always_. I just…hid it, because I was scared. But I knew how badly that would h-hurt you, and I’m really, really sorry I did that.” He’s stammering now from the apprehension, and he tries to slow himself down by brushing a thumb over Jongin’s eyebrow. “How do I make it up to you? I’ll do anything. _Anything_.”

Jongin kisses him then, and it takes him by surprise. This is not where Kyungsoo thought this was headed. Jongin holds him in place with one hand on his nape and the other pressed between Kyungsoo’s shoulder blades.

When he peels away, Kyungsoo is the one crying. “I’ll do anything,” he intones, “anything, anything.” A sob threatens in his throat, and he lets it swell to full size. “Tell me what to do, Jongin, and I’ll do it for you, as long as it isn’t to stay away from you.”

“If you stay away,” Jongin warns him, “I will never, ever forgive you.”

“Okay.” That’s a comfort veiled in a threat. Kyungsoo breathes again. “Tell me what to do then.”

Jongin pecks him on his forehead. “I want you to do this.” On his right temple. “Every day.” On his left. “When we wake up.” Between his brows. “When we go to bed.” On the tip of his nose. “When either of us gets home from work.” His left cheek. “Or when we run into each other while doing errands.” His right. “I want you to do this.” Jongin passes his hand over Kyungsoo’s eyes to close them. “Tell me you’re mine.” A kiss is pressed over one eyelid, then the other. “Tell me I’m yours.” The kiss travels down over bridge of Kyungsoo’s nose, coming to a halt at the crest of his Cupid’s bow.

When Kyungsoo opens his eyes, he is staring directly into the face of the sun.

“That’s all I want you to do, hyung.”

The kiss comes from Kyungsoo this time, ladled gently into Jongin’s mouth, like he’s passing him a sweet. There is a sense of finality in this one, an ultimatum in the way their lips magnetize, stamping a secret pact with invisible ink.

“Tell me you love me,” he appeals to Jongin, because Jongin hasn’t said it yet. It feels too much like a dream, the wave of anticipation that rolls over Kyungsoo and pulls him under until he’s drowning in it. But Jongin meets him touch for touch, breath for breath, smile for shaky smile, and Kyungsoo knows this happiness is real.

“You know I love you, Kyungsoo-hyung.”

There is a tender moment here, soundless and sensory, haloed by the glow from both their faces. Kyungsoo thinks they might kiss again, and his body thrills. He can feel the gossamer threads of his relief giving way to something more solid, more urgent—passion, maybe, or something equally pent-up.

Then Jongin’s stomach rumbles, loud as a truck, and _that_ takes precedence over making out in this kitchen.

Kyungsoo’s palms his tummy with tender loving care. “Are you still too mad to eat your dinner?”

“Feed me and you’re forgiven,” Jongin says sheepishly. He hooks his pointer around Kyungsoo’s thumb. When he squeezes it, it feels like a guarantee.

That neon sign glimmers steadfastly overhead. Its cheap electrical wiring maintains a low buzz. There is a green cast over Jongin’s face; probably over Kyungsoo’s, too. “Eat, Drink, Dance,” the sign declares, and Kyungsoo thinks that doesn’t sound too bad for the rest of his life with this man.

 

 

“Really, Kyungsoo, you don’t have to explain,” Shin-hye laughs. Her pearl earrings swing by her jawline, catching the sunlight and making her face look all sparkly.

“No, I do,” Kyungsoo insists helplessly. He feels overdressed in his turtleneck and pressed slacks. Shin-hye's apron is gloriously stained (that's turmeric, he's guessing), and her hair is stuffed into a net, with only those pearls to adorn her. She obviously didn’t think twice about him coming by today, but Kyungsoo had cleaned up nicely out of respect.

“Look, I _get_ it.” Shin-hye stares him down, and Kyungsoo knows he’s been read like a book. “You’re in love with the puppy, so it’s, ‘Thank you, next,’ to everyone who came before.”

Kyungsoo snorts at that. “Did you just quote Ariana Grande to me?”

“Young Ariana run pop.” Shin-hye arches a perfect eyebrow.

“Did you just quote _Nicki Minaj_ to me?”

Shin-hye rolls her eyes. “Try not to sound so shocked, kid. I’m not that old.”

Kyungsoo humors her for old times’ sake. “Thirty in the spring, right?”

“Thirty- _seven,_ excuse you.” Shin-hye twinkles at him. She really is something. “And don’t flirt with me, pretty. Your puppy wouldn’t like that.”

That makes Kyungsoo grimace. “Sorry. Pretend I didn’t—let’s just scratch out that part.”

More laughter. Pearls swing. “Aw, Kyungsoo. I’m going to miss you and that weirdly sexy bumbling of yours.”

“Thanks…I guess?” Kyungsoo quirks his lips. “It’s not like we’ll never see each other again. I’ll still come by once in a while to make deliveries when hyung can’t manage them. I just thought it was the fair thing, the _professional_ thing to do, to make sure you got the better man for the job.” 

“You’re the better man for the job,” Shin-hye says amiably, no strings attached. She still manages to pull off elegant with crusty yellow stains on her clothes. “But I get it. You turned my account over to Seungsoo to make sure your beautiful boy doesn’t feel uncomfortable. I probably would have done the same thing if I was in your position.”

“Yeah…it’s a personal thing, noona.”

“And it’s the smartest thing you’ve ever done, besides tell that boy you love him.” Shin-hye tucks a strand of hair underneath her cap. She smells like herbs and spices. “No hard feelings.”

A sip of water gives her some respite from all this graciousness. It’s Acqua Panna on ice, with a slice of lemon. Kyungsoo had introduced her to the South Korean distributor last year. He’d heard through the grapevine (Seungsoo-hyung) that the guy is completely smitten with her now, and sending over gallons of natural spring water on the house. 

Smart guy.

“Does his brother know?”

Kyungsoo pours himself a glassful of swanky water (might as well). “His brother?”

“Jongin’s brother,” Shin-hye clarifies. “The one with the prince face, who took care of you when you were young.”

“Oh, Joonmyun.” Kyungsoo nods in understanding. His chest warms in remembrance. “Yeah, of course. He knows.”

They’d told him first. Joonmyun’s eyes had mellowed at him in a way Kyungsoo had never known before, and he’d folded his brother into his arms as though Jongin were a plush toy, not a tall, strapping thing with four inches on him. “I’m glad,” Joonmyun’d whispered into Jongin’s ear. “And if you ever act stupid again,” he’d informed Kyungsoo, between moist chuckles, “you’re dead.”

They’d told Seungsoo, too, of course. Then Taemin and Sehun on the same day, separately. Then the rest of the crew a few days after that, all together, while they were having Thursday night drinks at the bar. The reactions to the news had ranged from shock (Seungsoo: “Is that why you had so many sleepovers when you were kids?!”) and reproach (Baekhyun: “No wonder Soo’s been so insufferable lately…”), to empathy (Chanyeol: “Aw, this is like when me and Joohyun had just started dating!”) and glee (Sehun: “I _knew_ this would happen eventually, Nini~”).

The expression on Shin-hye's face right now resembles what Joonmyun’s had been: proud and kindly, like a mother humoring her son. “And your parents?”

“We’ll tell them soon.” Kyungsoo runs his thumb over the lip of his glass. “We just want some time to ourselves.”

Shin-hye hums in agreement, and says that’s a terrific idea. When Kyungsoo smiles at her, the older woman winks, and he knows things are good between them, even after he’s left her for a man.

“Quality time.” The ice cubes in Shin-hye’s water clink. “Your puppy will love that.”

“This puppy, too,” Kyungsoo admits, and he raises his glass.

 

 

For a few weeks, maybe a whole month, there is peace and quiet—and it is pure bliss.

They eat every meal they can manage together. Kyungsoo whips up gourmet breakfasts and fancy dinners as often as he can, no matter how early they both have to get up or how late one of them comes back in. He makes a mean packed lunch (even Taemin says so). And it’s less about using up his stash of ridiculously expensive, swiftly expiring gastronomical treasures, and more about flexing his kitchen skills to impress Jongin. Jongin is so easily impressed. Sometimes all he wants is fried chicken, and Kyungsoo tries to impress him with that, too, memorizing the numbers of all the best _chimaek_ joints in Seoul so Jongin never gets bored or feels discontent when they order in.

They go out to the movies and binge on popcorn, or stay in and marathon anime on Jongin’s beat-up Macbook. Kyungsoo’s not sure which one he prefers more: getting to hold Jongin’s hand in public and feel Jongin’s arm around his shoulder when the cinema’s airconditioning is turned up too high, or snuggling under his covers with their legs all tangled up and no one to bother them while they snarf on chips. Jongin always manages to look cute and sexy at once, especially when he’s concentrating on the story. His perpetual pout gets even poutier, and his ninety-degree jawline sharpens impossibly, and Kyungsoo often stops watching the screen altogether so he can watch Jongin instead.

They talk about everything. Important things, like Jongin’s plans to scale the studio into a pro bono facility for struggling idol trainees, and Kyungsoo’s dreams of one day putting up his own restaurant in Busan, where the fish market is unrivaled and he can cook by the sea. Ordinary things, like what gift to get Seungsoo-hyung and his wife when the new baby is born, or the explanation for an inside joke Taemin and Jongin have been giggling over that Kyungsoo _still_ can't grasp. Gossipy things, like how Seulgi made a scene at Chanyeol’s bar and broke up with Baekhyun _again_ because he flirts with everything that moves, or how the other night, Joonmyun called Jongin in a panic after Sehun, _Oh Sehun_ , who is practically _Jongin_ to Joonmyun, asked him out on a date—a _date!—_ and serenely refused to take no for an answer.

(Kyungsoo suspects Joonmyun didn’t want to say no, either, and tells Jongin so with a little grin. There are years of stolen looks and questionable intimacy that Kyungsoo has observed between the two to support his theories. And then, of course, there was the time Joonmyun'd turned Joohyun-noona down, because Chanyeol was crazy about her, and Sehun, at the time, was not. “I hated all the girls who fell in love with you,” Jongin confesses in that moment, and Kyungsoo snuggles him extra tight to make up for it.)

They talk about everything, and nothing at all, and this pacific domesticity tides Kyungsoo over for a few weeks. Maybe a whole month. They kiss softly, and laugh loudly, and hold each other close. Every single day, they talk and make up for lost time, and it’s enough for Kyungsoo. It’s more than enough.

Then one night, they’re lying in bed together, and it’s just…not enough anymore. Jongin is stretched out next to him, staring at the ceiling while Kyungsoo stares at him and yearns. His man is long and strong and bronze all over, body like a sin in those jeans Kyungsoo just got him and the tank top with the giant armholes he didn’t bother changing out of after his last class.

Kyungsoo isn’t insecure. Sure, he used to be awkward and tiny, and okay, a little emo—but he’s a man now, and he’s sexy, too, sort of. He’s a grown man, with an ass he’s proud of and a face the average guy wouldn’t shy away from in the mirror. His narrow shoulders don’t bother him as much as they used to, _and_ he’s got great hair. _Sexy_ hair.

So it eats at him a little—sometimes, a lot—that Jongin hasn’t tried anything. They’re together, they’re _finally_ together, and so deeply in love. The chemistry between them could rival an active volcano’s, and when Jongin looks at him, eyes at half-mast and mouth in full smolder, Kyungsoo feels like he could very well explode.

Most nights, he just seals that feeling off, and leaves the room, or passes Jongin the salt, or lets small talk leach the heat out of his system.

But tonight is not most nights. Tonight, with his skin dappled in moonbeams and a restless sigh escaping his lips, Jongin is irresistible. Kyungsoo is older, wiser, _and_ his first love. He doesn’t have to wait for Jongin to make the first move—and he won’t wait any longer.

Carefully, he threads their fingers over Jongin’s hip, and noses his way into the hinge of Jongin’s neck, and notches his lips against Jongin’s ear to ask, “Will you teach me?”

He doesn’t miss the way Jongin’s throat works when Kyungsoo’s breath fans against his earlobe. Jongin looks over at him, piqued. “Teach you what, hyung?”

They contemplate one another, a blink for a blink. “How to make love to you,” Kyungsoo says, flushing crimson.

Just like that, all that peace and quiet disappears, and something hot and dangerous flashes through both of them like an electric shock.

The only word to describe it is _desperate_ —the way Jongin pulls Kyungsoo on top of him with a groan to tug at the zipper of his jeans. The way Kyungsoo seals their mouths together in a succulent kiss, anchoring himself on two handfuls of Jongin’s shirt. The way Jongin somehow gets Kyungsoo’s shirt out of the way without stopping the kiss, and shoves his pants and underwear down, down, down, _off._ The way he does the same to undress himself, frantic yet methodical, stopping only mid-strip to worry at Kyungsoo’s nipples with his tongue. Kyungsoo makes a sound halfway between a hiss and a moan, and that’s desperate, too, impossibly desperate. And then his fingers are sliding into Jongin’s mouth, and Jongin’s hand is on him, caressing. 

The inside of Jongin’s fist is warm and firm, and it’s a man’s hand, just rough enough to keep Kyungsoo on edge. He’s never had a man touch him before, and it fills him with pride that Jongin is his first, his only. The feel of it is too dry, and Kyungsoo is too nervous and turned on and _grateful_ to mention it, but Jongin figures it out on his own, anyway, his eyes trained on every twitch in Kyungsoo’s face as he sucks on three of Kyungsoo’s digits. For a frantic moment, he releases Kyungsoo to spit into his palm and has Kyungsoo do the same, and then that perfect warmth is around him again, wetter this time, and Kyungsoo’s eyes are rolling to the back of his head.

“Oh, god,” Kyungsoo hears himself say, as Jongin picks up the pace and pants around his fingers. The sound of their skin sliding is obscene, and Kyungsoo can’t help the way he writhes, ass grinding over Jongin’s thighs and another moan stalling in his throat as Jongin strokes him breathlessly. Jongin’s eyes stay on him, dark and quiet, and there are galaxies shining in them when Kyungsoo paints pearls over his chest. Kyungsoo would be embarrassed by how long he held out (not long at all) were it not for the desire dripping off of Jongin’s face. So he digs his fingers into Jongin’s damp hair and claims every inch of that wet mouth while his body succumbs.

A hot, hard promise of a thing rubs against Kyungsoo’s inner thigh. Without a second thought, he reaches between his legs for it.

“Let me try,” he mumbles into Jongin’s mouth. It comes off shy, like a question, but Kyungsoo means it as a command, and he lets Jongin know this with a tentative squeeze. Jongin groans again, loud and a little wretched. He mashes their lips together one more time before he lets Kyungsoo tear himself away and slide all the way down.

Kyungsoo’s never put his mouth on a man before. And Jongin is a beautiful man, the _most_ beautiful, and he’s had other men before Kyungsoo who knew exactly what they were doing. So his first few moves are haphazard, and his nose gets in the way, and he doesn’t know what to do with his teeth. He worries that he was rash, that perhaps he should have let Jongin lead. But Jongin cradles his jaw with the hand that smells like Kyungsoo, and brushes his bangs out of his face with the hand that smells like Jongin. He whispers, “Just kiss me, hyung,” with the kind of gentleness that tells Kyungsoo he is loved, and how. Then nothing else matters anymore except letting Jongin know _he_ is loved, and _how_ , and Kyungsoo parts his lips, and offers his tongue, and experiences for the first time what a beautiful man tastes like.

Jongin at ease at parties, walking through busy streets, tearing across his dance studio with the legs of Baryshnikov, is a quiet presence—always a little mysterious, never nondescript, but quiet nonetheless. Jongin in Kyungsoo’s bed, with Kyungsoo between his legs, and Jongin rocking into the soft, wet love Kyungsoo gives to him is not a quiet presence. The sounds he makes drive Kyungsoo into a kind of delirium: a collection of husky moans and just enough dirty talk to coat Kyungsoo’s naked body in goosebumps.

“That feels good, hyung,” Jongin tells him, completely in earnest. And then, “I’ve wanted you forever,” followed by a rich groan that rumbles through Kyungsoo’s belly, and makes him close his eyes, and tenderly suck.

Jongin lets him have his way with him, encouraging Kyungsoo with soft touches to his face and hair and softer words about his pretty, pretty mouth. Warmth floods through Kyungsoo’s body at that, and there is nothing he feels more strongly than the depth of being in love, even as his thighs strain from the crouch and his tummy knots with lust. He is in love with this man, and this man is in love with him, and glowing with the power of it. When Jongin comes, Kyungsoo can’t take his eyes off of him. Jongin is made of the sun: every sweaty strand of hair, every centimeter of sticky skin, somehow tinged with gold.

Jongin grabs his waist to hoist him back up. He kisses Kyungsoo like he’s dying of thirst, and the last drop of water on earth is hidden behind Kyungsoo’s swollen lips. Jongin tastes like honey, heady and sweet. Kyungsoo knows he tastes like Jongin.

“Hyung,” Jongin mutters, maneuvering them both so that he can be on top this time. Their foreheads touch. Just the scent of him makes Kyungsoo’s head swim. “Hyung, can I?”

“Yes.” Kyungsoo instinctively hooks his legs over Jongin’s hips. “Just…teach me.” He bites his bottom lip, feeling brazen and bashful at once. Tonight he is a novice who will let a man take him—and one day, he’ll ask to take that man, too. “I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know if I’ll be any, any good at it. But…” He only pauses here because Jongin has leaned down to kiss him. The words come to him then, drawn from his mouth by the same lips that uttered them. “I’ve wanted you forever, Jonginnie.”

After that, galaxies shine on him endlessly. Kyungsoo loses himself in the interplay of brightness and darkness that he finds there, locked in Jongin’s relentless gaze. There is darkness when Jongin teaches him about fingers and tongue, and Kyungsoo reacts to these lessons by clutching at the sheets, or Jongin’s hair (again). There is brightness when Jongin teaches him how a man makes another man his, and the initial ache of it gives way to unbearable pleasure. The more Kyungsoo gasps and keens and moans, because he can’t help how good it feels, the brighter Jongin’s eyes become. There are equal parts star-bright and deep-dark as they both slide to the finish line; Kyungsoo’s legs draped over Jongin’s waist and his hands full of Jongin’s ass and Jongin’s hips hitting home each time they move, like he’s choreographed this dance all the way down to the last breathtaking beat.

Jongin’s eyes are blown out now, full of light. “Hyung, I’m—”

“Me, too.” Kyungsoo pulls him in so their chests are flush. He hears his heartbeat in his ears and feels Jongin’s against his sternum.

“Yeah?” It’s more a whimper than a word. Jongin is so, so close. Kyungsoo will get him there—both of them.

He buries his face in Jongin’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Come on, baby.”

It’s Jongin who cries out first. The sound thins into a buzz, and there is an explosion of stars behind Kyungsoo’s eyes. Champagne supernova, a blinding little death, splitting him into atoms upon atoms upon atoms. The feeling is jarring, while delicious, and Kyungsoo’s not sure if he’s going to make it out alive. But then he remembers to breathe—or cry out just like Jongin did, he’s not too sure—and everything comes rushing back: sight, hearing, smell, and the taste of Jongin still lingering inside his mouth.

Jongin is shuddering against him, slowing inside of him, looking as radiant as a star himself. On pure impulse, Kyungsoo kisses him, and kisses him again, and feels as golden as Jongin looks.

“I’m yours,” Jongin says quietly, as soon as Kyungsoo gives him air. It makes him seem like an innocent. He’s _still_ an innocent, in so many ways.

( _My man-child_ , Kyungsoo thinks, but doesn’t say out loud, lest Jongin take offense to the term. _Sweet, beautiful boy._ He’ll be thirty in a few years, and there’s a five-o-clock shadow graying his jawline, but he’ll be a man-child to Kyungsoo even when they’re eighty and bald, because he’s precious, and so damn pretty, and Kyungsoo will always want to take care of him.)

He runs his thumb over Jongin’s cheekbone. “Promise?”

He gets a nod in return. “I’m yours, hyung,” Jongin echoes, so seriously, like he never wants Kyungsoo to forget it.

It’s so simple, it’s almost cliché. Kyungsoo could do so much more: bring the whole solar system into it, name every sun in every universe, and say Jongin outshines them all.

But Jongin likes simple. He likes fried chicken, and sweatpants he can dance in, and secondhand furniture, and Netflix on the weekends. He never asked for the stars. All he asked was to belong to Kyungsoo—and Kyungsoo will be damned if he doesn’t give him that.

He rubs their noses together, just once, left and right. Tiny little Eskimo kiss for his big, big love.

“You’re mine, Kim Jongin,” Kyungsoo promises right back. “And I’ve always been yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case anybody needs a reference photo for Shin-hye, [here she is](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CyCGeDPXEAA4hXE.jpg:large).
> 
> PS. If you were one of the people who left me comments and sent me messages on LJ in 2017 and earlier this year, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten around to replying to you. I’ve read every piece of text and I’m so grateful for all the nice things you said. I didn’t leave the fandom (never!), I just wasn’t around much. Last year, I lost someone precious to me, slowly, and then suddenly, and everything had to take a backseat. It was difficult to get inspired; I started so many stories that I never finished and honestly never will. So finishing _this_ was a massive feat for me, and it made me fall back in love with writing again <3 I’m still a little rusty, but I hope you liked it. Please leave comments! I love comments! ^_^
> 
> PPS. Merry Christmas 🎄


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